


The Squire's Tale

by queenofthorns



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Azor Ahai theories, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthorns/pseuds/queenofthorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is show-canon, taking off from the events of Episode 6.08 ("No One") at Riverrun. </p><p>In which Podrick Payne bears witness to the power of true love and in which he must show his true colors to aid his lady knight. Can a squire be a hero?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Siege Perilous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Podric Payne considers Lady Brienne in a new light.

Banners dance in the chill breeze off the river, the golden lions of Lannister and the dull grey towers of Frey. Pod realizes that he and M'lady have stumbled into a siege.

Sansa Stark couldn’t have known, else she would never have sent her sworn sword on a fool’s errand, would she? It’s as plain as the nose on Pod’s face that there will be no Tully armies forthcoming, not with the hundreds - no, thousands - of tents that lie between Lady Brienne and Riverrun, like so many red mushrooms sprung from the muddy ground.

“There’s no place worse than a castle under siege, my lad,” his first knight, Ser Larimer, had told him. “Unless it’s a battle. Best run as far, and as fast as you can, should you find yourself amidst either.” But Ser Larimer hadn’t been a proper knight, just a hungry man with a sword, who'd died for the sake of a stolen ham. And Pod hadn't been a proper squire.

“It looks like a siege, M'lady,” he says.

“You have a keen military mind, Pod,” she replies.

When Pod first met Lady Brienne, he was afraid of her. His very presence seemed to annoy her, and no matter what he tried to do, it always went wrong. Until one day, she’d talked to him, properly, as if Pod was a real person whose opinions mattered; she'd told him about her childhood and Renly Baratheon and why she’d loved him. That day, Pod, no stranger to loneliness himself, realized that M'lady was the loneliest person he’d ever met.

Since then, she’d been different, the edge of her words blunted by her actions; she had let him see her rare smile when he mastered some hard-won skill, and he knew the kindness that ran bone-deep in her. Though, if he were perfectly honest, he’d prefer somewhat more kindness during their training sessions, for the sake of his bruises and tired limbs. “It’s how you learn, Pod,” M’lady always told him when he groaned. “You fall, and you rise, and you fall again, until one day, you stop falling.”

He hears Lady Brienne’s breath hitch for an instant, sees her lips part, and her wide mouth softly curve. When Pod follows her gaze to the camp below, he sees a golden knight on a white horse, at the head of a column of armored men. _Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer._ She never speaks of him, but sometimes she wears that same faint smile when she strokes oil down the waves of fire and smoke on the blade he gave her.

Pod hears the jingle of harnesses from behind them; he turns to the sound, and sees half a dozen Lannister men-at-arms approaching at a canter.

“M'lady,” Pod says, but she does not hear.

“M'lady,” he says again, but she does not move, until the men surround them and demand their business.

“Inform Ser Jaime Lannister I’ve come to speak with him,” Lady Brienne says. “Tell him I have his sword.”

***

One Lannister guardsman bids them wait outside the commander's lavish tent, but M'lady marches in at his heels, and Pod, perforce, must follow.

The Kingslayer is seated at a table of polished ebony, golden head bent over a message he is laboriously writing with his left hand. A skinny dark-haired boy a few years younger than Pod, with the scruffy beginnings of a beard, stands beside him, pressing a signet ring into the warm wax that seals a handful of letters.

“My Lord,” the Lannister guardsman says. “You have a visitor.”

The Kingslayer does not lift his head. "Tell him to wait."

Lady Brienne steps past the guardsman, to loom over the table. “Ser Jaime," she says.

At the sound of her voice, the Kingslayer looks up, and rises to his feet so swiftly that he must steady himself. His golden hand jerks, scattering scrolls, quill, ink, wax, and signet across the table and onto the floor; his squire dives to catch the heavy ring, and then kneels to gather the remaining letters and unmarked pieces of parchment. Pod wonders whether he should offer to help, but he is far too interested in the sight of M’lady and the Kingslayer face to face, separated only by the width of the table.

The silence between them is broken by the crackle of parchment, and a muffled cry from the squire, who has evidently bumped his head on the underside of the table.

“Leave it, Peck,” the Kingslayer commands. “Take the finished ones to Maester Desmond, and tell him I’ll have more work for his ravens later.”

“Yes, my lord.” Peck stops rubbing his head and scrambles up from his knees.

“And Peck?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Close your mouth. You’re gaping at Lady Brienne.”

The boy ducks his head, blushing. Pod gives Peck an encouraging nod as he passes; the Kingslayer has done his own fair share of what might truthfully be called gaping as well, ever since he saw M’lady.

“Brienne.” The Kingslayer's voice deepens as he says her name. “I did not think to see you again. What brings you here?”

M’lady steps back, and clears her throat. “Ser Jaime, I must speak with you on a matter of urgency concerning Sansa Stark.” Her words come clipped and very fast. She’s nervous, Pod realizes.

“Donnel, you may leave as well,” the Kingslayer commands the guardsman.

“Lord Jaime,” Donnel says, still stiffly at attention. “She’s armed, and so’s the boy.”

“I'm not blind, Donnel,” the Kingslayer says, “I see that Lady Brienne is armed, but I trust she does not mean me harm. You may stand guard outside.” His tone brooks no further argument.

“Yes, m’lord.” The guardsman salutes smartly, and marches past, with a meaningful glare at Lady Brienne and at Pod, who’s pinching his nostrils to stop a tickle in his nose.

“Forgive me, Brienne. I thought it best that we not discuss treason in front of my squire and my guard. And I am right, am I not? You mean me no harm?”

“Sansa Stark has sent me to Riverrun,” M’lady says in a rush, ignoring his question.

The Kingslayer frowns. "Sansa Stark?"

The treacherous tickle becomes a sneeze that bursts forth despite Pod’s best efforts. Two blonde heads turn, and two sets of eyes narrow, as Pod sneezes again, and then twice more.

Lady Brienne wears the look of disappointment that Pod saw so often in their earlier days together, though the Kingslayer's lips twitch in what might be amusement.

“If you’re quite finished, Pod,” M’lady says, “you may wait outside for me.”

Pod stumbles out, his face hot and red with embarrassment. He moves out of earshot, not wishing to disturb them again. M'lady's disapproval stings, especially when he's no longer used to it.

***

 _Gods be good._ Bronn cannot possibly have the right of it. M'lady is as chaste as Baelor the Blessed. But ... _The way she looks at him._ Pod remembers how her lips parted and her mouth softened as she watched the Kingslayer ride through his camp. _The way he looks at her … I've seen starving men look at fresh-baked bread with less hunger in their eyes. Gods be good._ Can Bronn be right?

Before he can puzzle this out, Bronn grabs his balls and squeezes. “You’re the one with the magic cock,” he says. “You must have shown it to her by now.”

“Owww!” Pod yelps. “No! Of course not!!” Not for the first time, Pod deeply regrets going along with the joke the whores wanted to play on Lord Tyrion.

“She’s training me to fight,” he says, when the pain in his groin has slightly lessened. “An hour in the morning, an hour at night. Every day.”

“Then how come an old cunt like me can still sneak up and murder you?”

"Different kind of fighting," Pod says. Bronn reminds him of Ser Larimer; the difference is that if Bronn stole a ham, he’d feast his victim on the stolen meat, and then slide his knife between the witnesses' ribs.

“Now that’s the truth, isn’t it,” Bronn says. “You want to learn that sort of fighting?”

Pod nods.

By the time Pod evades Bronn’s fourth slap, they’ve gathered an audience of Lannister men. Bronn grins. “That’s right,” he says. “Come and learn. I’m the best teacher you sorry lot’ll ever see.”

When Pod’s hard elbow to Bronn’s belly makes the older man stagger, he hears some of the men start to wager, mostly on Bronn, but Pod's earned himself a couple of adherents as well. Their mirth is interrupted by Lady Brienne, who pushes her way through the center of the makeshift ring.

She ignores Pod’s bloody nose, addressing herself to Bronn, as she refastens her sword belt. “Ser Jaime orders that you will escort Podrick and me through the Lannister and Frey lines and permit us to enter the castle of Riverrun.”

Bronn raises an eyebrow. “Oh,” he says. “Does he now?”

"Do you wish to ask him yourself?"

“Oh, no, m’lady,” says Bronn, with a leer at Lady Brienne's hands on her buckle. Pod wishes he’d elbowed him harder. “I know a Lannister always pays his debts.”

***

A troop of heavily armored cavalry escorts Lady Brienne and Pod to the edge of the siege lines, where Bronn makes them dismount, despite M’lady’s protest that these are _her_ horses, given to her by his master.

"He didn't say anything about giving the Tullys horsemeat to fill their bellies in the siege, did he?”

As M'lady and Pod the reach the edge of Riverrun's moat, Pod looks back to where the horsemen have closed ranks as if to block their return. There is no comfort atop the sheer gray walls of Riverrun: a dozen or more Tully crossbowmen have their quarrels trained on the two figures on the bridge. _We are like two ears of barley between the millstones_ , Pod thinks. What chance do they have against two armies?

"State your business," a voice calls down from above.

"My business is with Ser Brynden Tully." Lady Brienne's voice is a clarion bell. "And not to be shouted on the wind."

During the long silence that follows, Lady Brienne stands, feet slightly apart, and back straight, her thumbs hooked through her swordbelt, seemingly unconcerned about the bolts aimed at her head. Pod takes deep breaths of the damp air, and digs his nails into his palm to distract him from the turmoil in his belly. When at last the bowmen lower their weapons, a creaking of wood and clanking of chains follows. M'lady scarcely waits for the drawbridge to be lowered before she is striding across the moat to wait as the great gates of Riverrun are opened.

They are greeted by a young man with curling brown hair and an open, friendly face, who introduces himself as Alyn Ryger, the captain of Riverrun's guard.

"Lady Catelyn said the captain of the guard was Ser _Robyn_ Ryger," M'lady says as they climb the narrow stairs behind Ryger. She has never been to Riverrun, yet she remembers the details Catelyn Tully told her. _May her loyalty help her make her case to the Blackfish,_ , Pod thinks.

"Robin Ryger was my uncle," Alyn says, turning briefly. His voice is level and cool, and if he is touched by Lady Brienne's devotion to her dead mistress, nothing in his face betrays it. "Slain at the Twins with the Young Wolf and his bride, and our Lady Catelyn."

A grizzled grey-haired man in grey armor awaits them at the battlements. His breastplate is blazoned with a leaping trout in black, instead of Tully blue and red, and distrust is written in every rigid line of his body.

Lady Brienne bows her head. "Ser Brynden," she says. "I am Brienne of Tarth, who was sworn sword to Lady Catelyn Stark."

Ser Brynden looks her up and down. "I remember." He purses his lip. "Cat told me she had a lady knight in her service, that she'd sent you to King's Landing with Jaime Lannister. She pinned her hopes on your bringing Sansa and Arya back to her. Your friends over there killed her before she knew you'd failed."

Lady Brienne's head jerks back as though he's hit her. She swallows hard before she says, "I serve Sansa Stark now. She has sent me to Riverrun to ask for your aid in reclaiming Winterfell from the Boltons."

"As you see, I am otherwise occupied."

"If you surrender Riverrun peacefully, Ser Jaime Lannister promises generous terms. He gives his word ---."

"The Kingslayer gives his word?" The Blackfish snorts. "That's like a whore giving her word she's a maiden."

One of the Tully men chuckles.

M'lady's hands clench by her side, but her voice stays level. "As I said, Ser Jaime gives his word that if you surrender Riverrun, without bloodshed, he will permit you and your army to march north to fight for Sansa Stark."

"So long as I draw breath, I will not surrender Riverrun," the Blackfish snaps. "The Kingslayer can promise me all the gold in Casterly Rock, and the sun, moon and stars besides. I will **not** surrender."

"Ser Brynden, please..." Lady Brienne pleads. The Blackfish has already started down, his spurs ringing on the stone steps, and she follows him, with Pod bringing up the rear.

"Seven hells, woman, but you're persistent. I've said no three times already.”

When the reach the bottom of the stairs, Lady Brienne holds out the scroll she has carried from Castle Black.

“I have a signed letter from your niece Sansa Stark.”

He glances back at the direwolf sigil stamped in red, but he does not reach for M'lady's outstretched hand. “I haven’t seen her since she was a child. I don’t know her signature. I don’t know you. And I will not surrender. Double the guards tonight," he orders Ryger. "The Kingslayer wants to try us. I can feel it.”

"As I have said, my name is Bri-..."

The Blackfish strides away; Lady Brienne's long legs stand her in good stead, but Pod is practically running to keep up.

"Yes, Brienne of Tarth. I know your father. Good man."

"He always spoke highly of you," Lady Brienne says.

"And if he were here now, I’d tell him the same I’m telling you. If you think I’m abandoning my family’s seat on the Kingslayer’s word of honor, you’re a bloody fool."

M'lady puts a hand on the Blackfish's shoulder, and turns him to face her. Absurdly, Pod thinks of a mother guiding a stubborn child; he has to put a hand over his face to suppress his untimely grin.

"Riverrun cannot stand against both the Lannisters and the Freys," Lady Brienne says, low and urgent.

The Blackfish shakes off her hand and continues on his path. "We can stand longer than your one-handed friend thinks we can."

"He’s _not_ my friend!"

This time Ser Brynden rounds on her. "No? Who gave you permission to cross the siege lines and enter the castle? Who gave you that sword with the golden lion on the pommel?"

Her cheeks flush red, and her voice rings out across the stone court. "Ser Jaime kept his word to your niece Catelyn Stark." Several of the Tully men, including Ryger, are openly staring now. M'lady continues: "He sent me to find Sansa, to help her as Catelyn wanted. He gave me this sword to protect her. That is what I have done, and what I will continue to do until the day I die." She holds out the scroll again, practically under Ser Brynden's nose.

The Blackfish's eyes narrow, but this time he takes the parchment, and the Tully men go back to their business.

"She's exactly like her mother." Ser Brynden wears a fond smile as he reads his niece's message. "I don't have enough men to help her take Winterfell."

"You have more than she does," M'lady says, softly.

"She wants her home back. I understand that. But this is my home. And if Jaime Lannister wants it, he can bloody well take it the way everyone else does." The Blackfish's voice has risen again, so all can hear him. "And now, Lady Brienne, I have urgent matters to attend to."

M'lady's shoulders sag. "Find the Maester," she says to Pod. "We need to get a raven north to Sansa."

"What should I have him write?" Pod asks.

Her hand rises to rest on the golden lion's head at her waist, and her mouth is set in a grim, unforgiving line. "Tell her I failed."

***

"Ser Brynden says your business is done, and you may return to your camp," Alyn Ryger says, diffidently.

"Tell Ser Brynden that I have no camp," M'lady says, very slowly and clearly, as though she doubts Ryger's ability to understand her. "I will stay and fight for Lady Sansa's kin."

"As to that, m'lady ..." Ryger shifts uneasily. "Ser Brynden says he won't have you roaming about the castle, or sending any signals to the Kingslayer. If you refuse to go, he bade me have you put somewhere where you'll be out of the way."

"Does he intend to take me prisoner? I came here under a flag of truce," M'lady bristles. "I am no spy."

"M'lady," Ryger says. "Those are my orders, from Ser Brynden Tully, who is the Lord of Riverrun whilst Lord Edmure is held by the Freys."

M'lady sighs. "Very well," she says, much to Pod's surprise. He has never seen her so easily turned aside, nor so dejected after a setback; in the past, Lady Brienne's dogged determination never flagged. _Did she truly think we would lift the siege without bloodshed?_ In the matter of noblemen's stubborn pride and their utter lack of sense, Pod thinks, he could be M'lady's tutor. _The Seven know I've seen enough of lordly pride and nonsense in my life._

***

Riverrun's ancient steward leads them to Lord Hoster Tully's solar, a grim grey place with cold ashes in the fireplace, and white squares on the walls where tapestries once hung. The shelves are bare save for cloudy bottles of maester's potions, a reminder of the old lord's last illness; heavy velvet curtains are drawn across the windows, so the dim shapes of chairs and table loom up in the darkness like shipwrecks. They are far from the main courtyard, and its din of battle preparations, and somehow this room is more menacing for the silence.

Perhaps Lady Brienne feels this too. "How long until nightfall?" she asks the steward, who lights them a tall candle.

"Night falls earlier each day, my lady," the old man mutters as he leaves.

A lad of sixteen or so comes in, bearing a basket containing a manchet loaf studded with raisins, a handful of small red apples, a flask of wine, and two cups. Evidently Riverrun is well-provided with food, if these are siege rations. The boy sets his load down, then reaches into his doublet and brings out an hourglass. "Master Wayn said to tell you it's three turns of the glass until darkness falls."

"Thank you," Lady Brienne says to the boy's back. She sets the hourglass on the table, pillows her face on her arms, and watches the sand in the glass, her gaze fixed as though she would hold the grains in place with her eyes.

Pod waits for her, but at last the rumble in his own stomach can no longer be suppressed. "M'lady," he says, "will you not eat?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not hungy, but have your fill, Pod."

The soft, fragrant bread is dust in his mouth. When he reaches for wine to wash it down, his hand shakes as he pours, and ruby drops pool on the table and soak into the linen napkin. He sets down the flask hurriedly.

"Are you nervous, Pod?" Lady Brienne asks.

"No," Pod lies.

"There is no shame in it, if you are," she says. "I too am afraid of what may come at nightfall."

"Do you think the Kingslayer will attack the castle tonight, m'lady?"

"Jaime hates that name," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "I do not know, Pod. He gave me until nightfall to persuade Ser Brynden to surrender Riverrun. After that ..." The last few grains of sand slide into the bottom of the hourglass, and she turns it with a steady hand. "After that, Ser Jaime will do what he sees as his duty, as I will do mine."

"Oh," Pod says, and goes back to chewing his bread.

At the second turn of the glass, Lady Brienne asks "What was it like?"

"M'lady?" Pod asks, startled.

"Blackwater. The siege at King's Landing. I've never been in a real battle."

"Oh," Pod says. He wishes he hadn't been in a real battle either. He wishes he had the words to tell her what it was really like. The noise before the battle. The screech of whetstones, and the ring of the smith's hammer on steel, the rumble of casks of pitch rolled across cobblestones, and the murmur of hundreds of prayers on men's lips. Or later, the boom of the ram on the Mud Gate, as though a giant fist were knocking for entry. Or what came after, the hiss and roar of fires raging beyond control, the crash of roof-beams splintering, and the screams of dying men and trapped horses that knifed through all the other noises and turned your stomach to water.

Pod still dreams, horribly, of green flames dancing on the river, and the scrape of his blade on Mandon Moore's breastbone. He can still feel the bridge of boats shifting under his weight, and the pull on his arms of Lord Tyrion, wet and limp in his armor, as Pod dragged him from the black mouth of the river.

All that suffering for mortar and brick. All those men, and women, and children, dead for pride and a family name and a silken banner.

"It's loud, and confusing." Pod tells M'lady. "And terrifying," he finishes softly.

Lady Brienne considers for a moment, watching the sand sink swiftly to the bottom of the glass. Then she takes a deep breath, as if she's made up her mind about something.

"Pod," she says, "you have served me well and faithfully, but this is not your fight."

"It's not yours either, M'lady," Pod replies.

"I swore an oath to Sansa Stark," she says. "Which makes this my fight, whether I will it or not. But nothing compels you to stay here. If you wish, I can ask the Blackfish to send you back to Jaime. _Ser_ Jaime. I'm sure he'd take you on. You served his brother."

Pod is horrified. "Is it because ... is it because I said I was afraid?"

"What? Oh no, Pod," she says. "I ... No, no. Look at me Pod," she commands. In the candlelight, her huge eyes are the dark blue of fast-falling night. "I told the Blackfish he can't hold Riverrun against the Freys and the Lannisters, and he can't. I don't ... I don't want you to die here."

"Please, M'lady, don't." The words tumble from his mouth in a rush. "Don't send me to the Kingslayer. I mean, to Ser Jaime. I'm your squire, M'lady. I'm supposed to follow you. That's what proper squires do. Please don't send me away."

She gives him a wavering smile. "I'm not a proper knight, Pod. How can you be a proper squire?"

"Notwithstanding," he says. "I'm your squire, M'lady."

***

They've turned the glass for the fifth time when footsteps sound in the corridor outside. They have heard no sounds of battle, but Lady Brienne half draws her sword, only to ram it back into her scabbard when the Blackfish bursts in.

He pauses to catch his breath. "My fool of a nephew has surrendered Riverrun," he says. He is taut with anger and disgust.

"Your nephew?"

"Yes," Ser Brynden says. "And the Freys and the Lannisters will be here within the hour. I've come to get you out before they arrive."

"Me?" she asks. "I am in no danger. Ser Jaime would not harm me. I know it."

"Mayhap you are right," Ser Brynden says. "But even if you are, the Freys are not known for keeping their word, and I'll not have Selwyn Tarth's daughter on my conscience."

Brienne looks dubious.

"They murdered their guests at a wedding feast," Ser Brynden snaps. "There's nothing to stop them killing you first and apologizing to Ser Jaime later. You're no use to Sansa dead, are you?"

"Very well," M'lady says. They follow Ser Brynden, who uses dark, narrow servants' passages to bring them down into the castle. As they pass the great courtyard, Pod hears the clash of swords and spears and shields being piled high, and glimpses the blue and red banners of the Tullys pooled on the ground. The noise of surrender is nearly as great as the noise of war, and it masks their own soft footsteps completely.

Ser Brynden takes them farther down, down, down, until they come at last to the water, where a small rowboat sits waiting. There is a bundle on the floor of the boat. "Provisions," Ser Brynden says. "At least for a day or two. The current will carry you out the water gate. Be silent and ship your oars until you're well away. Sound travels strangely over the river."

Lady Brienne nods as Pod settles himself into the boat and cracks his knuckles. If truth be told, he's still more comfortable in a boat than on a horse. Alas, they cannot row their way north from Riverrun.

"When you're out of bowshot, row until you see you an island in the middle of the river. Two hours, perhaps, or three," Ser Brynden says. "Depending on how fast that boy rows. The island is very small, little more than a sandbar. Take the left channel around it and very soon you'll see an old, abandoned mill. There are horses waiting for you there. Take them, ride north, and leave this mess behind. Tell Sansa that her mother would be proud of her."

Lady Brienne hesitates and in the silence, Pod hears the tramp of hundreds of marching feet echoing down through the stone halls of Riverrun.

"Go on," the Blackfish says, glancing back over his shoulder. "They're here."

"Come with us," Lady Brienne pleads.

"No," he says. "I've run before. From the Red Wedding. I won't run again. Not from my family home."

"Your family is in the North. Come with us. Don't die for pride, when you can fight for your blood."

The old man smiles. "You'll serve Sansa far better than I ever could. Go on." He draws his sword. "I haven't had a proper swordfight in years. I expect I'll make a damn fool of myself."

Pod hears cries from above. "Down here! Someone's down here!"

"M'lady, we must go," he says.

When they pass under the flickering torches, Pod sees a gleam of wetness on M'lady's cheek. He has never seen her weep before.

***

Once they are out of archers' range, Pod releases the oars from their locks. He glances up, and on the grey battlements of Riverrun that melt into the grey sky behind them, he spots the faint gleam of gold, high above the river gate.

"M'lady," he says, and gestures with his chin behind her.

She twists to look, and there is another gleam, moving, that might be a golden hand raised in farewell. Lady Brienne lifts her own gloved hand and waves; when she turns back to Pod, she draws a long, ragged breath, before her face settles into a pale mask. Pod rows in silence, broken only by muted splash of his oars and the lazy caws of crows awakening with the dawn. Just after sunrise, he sees a brilliant flash of blue as a kingfisher dives into the water, mere yards away. Lady Brienne scarcely moves, only raising her hand to brush away a sudden swarm of gnats.

They reach the island in the stream just after the sun has fully risen. Inside an abandoned mill at the water's edge, just as Ser Brynden promised, a lively bay mare and a placid grey gelding await them, already saddled. Pod determines that the gentle grey will be his mount.

"I'll just be a moment, Pod," Lady Brienne says, as he begins transferring their bundle from the boat into saddlebags.

He's used to M'lady's need for privacy when they travel together, and the familiarity of her departure is strangely comforting. _It'll be like before_ , he thinks as he cinches the mare's girths. _When we were looking for Lady Sansa_. Things were simpler then, before Lady Brienne's heart and Lady Brienne's honor were not so grievously at odds with one another.

Pod moves over to the grey. "You're a good sort, aren't you?" he asks it hopefully. The horse snorts, almost masking the scrape of a boot behind him. He pivots an instant too late; for the second time in as many days, a man's mailed forearm presses down on his windpipe. The forearm is followed by the prick of a blade under his ear.

"Be still," the man whispers, "if you want to live."


	2. Light Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pod is forced to make a difficult choice; Bronn cares about no one but himself; Peck is kind; and Jaime's back with his OTP, the red leather jacket!

"Are you ready?" Lady Brienne calls as she strides through the mill door, her boots loud on the stone floor. Her steps slow, and then stop. "Pod, where are you? Pod?"

He hears the gentle rasp of Oathkeeper leaving its scabbard, but before he can cry out to warn her, his captor shouts "Sheathe your sword, my lady." He manhandles Pod out from behind the horses, so Lady Brienne can see him, and the knife. "Sheathe your sword, or I'll slit the boy's throat."

Pod closes his eyes; the world constricts to the blade against his windpipe, the drumming of his heart, blood roaring in his ears _willshewon'tshewillshewon'tshe_ and the icy bead of sweat slithering down his back. _Gentle Mother_ , he prays, _make it quick. Make it quick. Make it quick._ Instead, he feels the slightest puff of air between the knife and his neck, and opens his eyes. He's still whole for now; Lady Brienne's sword is back in its scabbard. Pod stares at the lion's head hilt, with its jeering ruby eye, because anything is better than meeting M'lady's gaze. The truth is, she left Pod with a simple task, and he's failed her. She would never have let herself be captured by a robber. Now they will lose their horses and their provisions.

No sooner has Lady Brienne sheathed her sword than seven men, hooded and cloaked, swarm in from the door behind her, and down the stairs from the upper story of the mill. Seven against one. Pod can't supress a shiver as the thought crosses his mind that he and M'lady may lose more than their horses.

The men surround Lady Brienne. One, whose voice sounds strangely familiar, barks, "Undo your sword belt!"

Pod watches M'lady, whose rigid shoulders and set jaw betray her anger. 

"Nice and slow," the ringleader says. "The boy's life is in your hands. Understand?"

Lady Brienne nods. She is stone-still as another of the hooded men bends to pick up the sword belt, though she winces when he spits on the pommel. "Lions," he says scornfully. "Fuck 'em!"

"Now the armor," the commander orders.

Her hands are stiff and slow, as she wrestles with gorget, cuirass, faulds and pauldrons. Pod's fingers itch to help her, though she must have done this hundreds of times before she had a squire.

"Faster," the man says. "We haven't got all day." Pod's captor, who has been silent, turns the edge of his knife again, harder, so Pod feels a sudden sting, and then a sticky warmth sliding down his neck towards his collar.

When Lady Brienne stands in her studded leather gambeson, the ringleader approaches her; she casts her eyes down, but her fists ball at her side as he pats her chest, the small of her back, and at last reaches down into her boot. From there, he fishes out a knife which he sends spinning into the wood of the mill door.

The movement makes his hood fall back to reveal the curling brown hair of the erstwhile captain of Riverrun's guard. No trace of friendliness remains in Alyn Ryger's face.

"Tie her hands," he orders. His companions uncover their heads as well, and Pod recognizes the boy who brought them their food in Hoster Tully's solar, and others whose faces he last saw in the courtyard and on the battlements of Riverrun. They wrench M'lady's arms behind her back and bind her wrists with heavy lengths of rope. _Seven against one_ , Pod thinks. _Yet still they fear her._

These are no common cutpurses and outlaws. This is a trap, carefully laid, by the man who sent Lady Brienne and Pod here with the promise of horses and provisions. But Brynden Tully is nowhere to be seen amongst their captors, and Pod allows himself a moment to enjoy the thought that the Blackfish is on his way to a cell under the Twins. _I hope it's as dark and damp as an autumn night, with chains that weigh as heavy as the Father's judgment, and I hope the old man rots there._

Pod's captor withdraws the knife from his neck, and shoves him forward to stumble into the circle of men surrounding M'lady.

"Now, my lad," Alyn Ryger says, jerking his chin at Lady Brienne. "You're her squire?"

"Yes. I am her squire," Pod says.

"Whatever your quarrel is with me," M'lady breaks in, "Pod has nothing to do with it. It was never his choice to serve me. Let him go!"

"Is that true, Pod? You did not choose your service?"

"No, no, it's not true," Pod cries. "Of course I chose to serve M'lady! I'll serve her until I die. If she'll have me," he finishes in a mutter. He glances at M'lady, whose eyes are huge and bright as blue stars.

"Good. Well, then, Pod, I'll give you the chance to do your lady a great service, that may save her life." Ryger's close-lipped smile puzzles Pod.

"Anything," Pod says. Perhaps he can set still set things right.

"It's a simple matter," Ryger says. "You will ride to Riverrun, and find the Kingslayer. You will tell him that unless he comes back with you, alone and unarmed, by moonrise, this lady will answer for his crimes."

"No!" M'lady's voice is raw with anguish, and the tears spill unheeded from her eyes. It is the second time he has seen her weep. "Pod, do not! I command you! Do not bring Jaime here!"

"Silence, woman!" One of the Tully men fetches her a hard blow with the back of his gloved hand. A bruise blooms at the corner of her pale mouth; a ruby bead of blood wells up, where a stud has caught her lip. Pod marks the man's face, long and thin, with a scar like a fishhook above his right eyebrow. Someday, he'll pay for that blow.

"I will," Pod says to Ryger. "I will bring him."

"Tell the Kingslayer," says the man who hit M'lady, "that his whore'll hang if he doesn't come back with you."

***

Long after they've blindfolded Pod and led him from the mill to the River Road, long after he's cajoled his poor placid gelding into a reluctant trot, Pod can still hear Lady Brienne's cry as they took him from her. "No, Pod!" she'd screamed after him. "Not Jaime!"

"I'm sorry, M'lady," he whispers to himself. But there's no other choice. He must bring the Kingslayer to save Lady Brienne. _At least she'll be alive to hate me._

"Damn you to seven hells, you old laggard," he swears at the horse, which has taken advantage of Pod's inattention to slow into a walk. He spurs the poor beast on, promising it he'll see it well-fed and watered at Riverrun.

 _What if the Kingslayer won't come?_ a voice whispers inside his head. Bronn said he loved her. _Bronn said he'd fuck her. Not the same._ How can he, Podrick Payne, compel Jaime Lannister to do anything? Would they truly hang Lady Brienne? She's done the Tullys no wrong; she saved Lady Sansa; Brynden Tully said he knew her father. Perhaps if the Kingslayer doesn't come back with Pod, they'll let her go.

_Or perhaps they'll just hang the both of us._

***

He reaches Riverrun when the sun is high in the sky, blazing down over the scarlet and gold lions that stream from the castle's high towers and battlements. The Kingslayer has not yet turned over his prize to the Freys; their mud-brown camp still squats across the moat.

The drawbridge is down, but Riverrun's great gates are shut tight. A score of Lannister men stand guard at the entrance to the bridge, and others are ranged outside the postern gate, their scarlet cloaks brilliant against the grim grey walls of the keep.

Pod dismounts, and joins the line of those waiting to cross the bridge. When it's his turn, the guardsman asks him his name and his business. "Podrick Payne," he says. "Squire to Lady Brienne of Tarth. I've a message from her for Ser Jaime Lannister." Strictly speaking it's not a lie, though M'lady would disagree.

"Squire to _Lady_ Brienne? Never heard of her," The guardsman guffaws. "Some whore, is it? If it's whores you're looking for, they're all over there with the Freys. Now move on and stop wasting my time."

Pod clamps his jaw shut on the angry words that yearn to spill from his mouth. No sense getting into a pointless fight. He looks past his guardsman, at the others, hoping he'll see one of the soldiers who brought him and Lady Brienne into the camp yesterday. _Gods be good, has only a day passed?_ Luck is with him, for he spots the greying hair and pleasant face of the man who'd escorted M'lady and him into the Kingslayer's tent yesterday. The man is examining the contents of a washerwoman's basket with the point of his dagger. What was the man's name? Daeron ... Damon ... No. Donnel. That was it. Pod never forgets a face, and rarely forgets a name.

"Ask your friend there," he says. "Donnel. Ask him. He saw Lady Brienne and me."

"Hey! Donnel!" shouts Pod's guardsman. "This lad here says he knows you."

Donnel pokes at one last pile of laundered smallclothes, and then bids the washerwoman go on to the postern gate. He saunters over and takes a long, hard look at Pod, who hopes Donnel's memory is as good as his own.

"Oh, aye, Gerold," Donnel says at last. "He followed that big woman. Remember I told you about her? Strides into Lord Jaime's tent, bold as brass, and this one sidles in behind her. What's your business here today, lad?"

 _Keep it simple, Pod._ "Message for Ser Jaime," he says. "Regarding my lady." _First get into Riverrun, then find the Kingslayer and then convince him to leave his castle and his army ..._ and it sounds more absurd the more Pod thinks it.

"That's _Lord_ Jaime now, lad. Lord of Casterly Lock and Warden of the West," Donnel says with an almost fatherly pride. "Come, I'll take you into the castle. Can't promise you'll see his Lordship any time soon, though. Lots to do. We're leaving the castle to those muddy buggers over there tomorrow." He gestures over in the direction of the Frey tents.

"Have you known the Ki- Lord Jaime for a long time?" Pod asks as they walk across the bridge.

"Oh, aye," Donnel says. "I knew him before he went off to squire for Lord Crakehall. Never knew why he joined the Whitecloaks in King's Landing. Should've stayed in the Westerlands where he belonged. No good came out of King's Landing save when Lord Tywin ruled it. Not much even then."

Donnel hands Pod off to the gate guards, who hand him and his horse over to a young man absently eating an apple, strangely calm amidst the eruption of purposeful movement that signals an army about to move. Pod recognizes the thin frame and scruffy almost-beard.

"You're Ser Jaime's squire," Pod says, more accusingly than he intended.

"Josmyn Peckledon." The boy has a disarming smile. "But you can call me Peck. Everyone does. And you were with Lady Brienne."

"Yes. I'm her squire," Pod says. He likes Peck immediately, if only for the fact that he's remembered M'lady and doesn't think it's strange that she has a squire. "Podrick Payne. But you can call me Pod. Everyone does."

"You've business with Lord Jaime?" Peck asks. "Only, I heard you telling the last lot at the postern gate that you needed to see him."

"It's urgent," Pod says.

Peck nods. "Follow me."

"My horse," Pod says.

"Of course." Peck offers Pod's gelding his apple core, which the beast graciously accepts before it's led off by a stable lad Peck beckons over. _I kept my promise to you at least_ , Pod thinks as the gelding vanishes around a corner.

Peck bounds up the stairs to Hoster Tully's solar with Pod in tow. The door is ajar, and voices float out.

"Five hundred men to take Edmure Tully to Casterly Rock?"

"He'd be a prize for those bandits," the Kingslayer says. "What do they call themselves? The Brotherhood without Banners? And I don't entirely trust Lothor and Walder Frey out there. They'd like nothing better than to gut the last trout lord of Riverrun to send a message. Five hundred men. I'll take the rest of our host to the Twins, and fetch Roslyn Tully and her babe out to join her husband. You'll meet us at the Golden Tooth, Bronn, and take all three on to the Rock."

"Got a nice little love-nest ready for them, have you?" Pod can almost hear the leer in Bronn's voice.

"Bronn, sometimes you forget your manners."

"I didn't forget them, my lord. I never learned them in the first place. I'm just an upjumped sellsword, remember? Might be that lady wife you promised me can teach me some manners, when we're snug in our castle that you promised me, warmed by the thought of all that gold you promised me."

The Kingslayer laughs. "Don't make me say it, Bronn! A Lannister ---"

"Always pays his debts," Bronn finishes.

"Wait here," Peck whispers to Pod and knocks at the door.

"Enter."

Peck vanishes, shutting the door firmly, so Pod can no longer hear anything from inside. He's studying the door's intricate carvings of trout eating their tails; the longer he stares at them, the more they look like they're actually swimming. A hollow rumbling startles him, until he realizes it proceeds from his own belly; he hasn't eaten since that old bastard the Blackfish had him and M'lady locked up here inside that very room. _Haven't slept either_. Maybe he can curl up in that corner there while he waits. _Just for a short time._

Peck's head pops out from behind the door. "He'll see you."

The solar is no longer as grim as it was when he sat here and waited with Lady Brienne for the battle that never came. Scented wood crackles in the fireplace; shifting flames strike sparks of light from the inlaid armor hanging by the bed, and warm the deep red of the Kingslayer's leather jerkin. There's a map rolled out on the table, weighted down with golden goblets, and, in one corner, a lifelike golden hand.

"Podrick Payne," the Kingslayer says. "Why are you here? And where is Brienne?"

Pod's carefully considered explanations desert him in the face of that blazing green stare. "They're going to kill her," he blurts out.

"Kill Brienne? Who's going to kill her?"

Everything pours out muddied and wrong from his tired mouth. "Tully men. I thought they were bandits, but they said they'd kill her if you didn't answer for your crimes, and they said she was the Kingslayer's whore, and you must come with me, alone."

"Sit down, Pod, and breathe," the Kingslayer commands. "Peck, pour him some wine."

Pod perches on the edge of an enormous carved chair, and utterly fails to taste the best wine he's ever drunk.

"Now," Bronn says, "run through that again. Slowly."

Carefully, Pod recounts what happened at the mill. "They said if Ser - if Lord Jaime - didn't come back with me alone by moonrise, they would hang M'lady for his crimes. Begging your pardon, m"Lord."

"Tully men?" the Kingslayer asks. "You're sure?"

"Yes, m'Lord. I saw them here at Riverrun yesterday. And the Blackfish sent us to the mill."

"The Blackfish is dead," Bronn says. He exchanges a glance with the Kingslayer. "Think Lord Edmure had a hand in this?"

"He must have," the Kingslayer says. "I didn't think Edmure had it in him, but perhaps he was not so cowed as I thought."

They are missing the point. "Beg pardon, m'lord, but they called her your whore," Pod says. "And they said she'd hang if you didn't come with me."

"I know, Pod," the Kingslayer says, gently. "I heard you. Where are you meant to bring me?"

Pod leans forward, but the map is hard to read upside down. "They took my blindfold off at the fifteenth marker on the River Road. That's where they want me to bring you."

"You're not going," Bronn says to the Kingslayer. "It's a trap."

"Of _course_ it's a trap," he replies. "And of course I'm going."

"You're a damn fool then," Bronn snarls.

All the centuries of Lord Jaime's great house, all the generations of his ancestors, manifest themselves in the proud lift of his chin and the steel in his voice. "Bronn, you overreach yourself."

Bronn looks away first, and raises his hands in surrender. "Your pardon, my lord," he says.

 _The Kingslayer will come_ , Pod thinks, giddy with relief. _Lord Jaime. We'll save Lady Brienne._ He stands, sways, and sits back down with a thump, as an an enormous face-splitting yawn overtakes him.

"Podrick, when did you and Brienne last sleep?" Lord Jaime asks.

"Two days ago," Pod says. "Maybe three?" He yawns again.

"Peck," Jaime says, "Podrick needs a bed."

"No," Pod says. "I must go with you. You can't leave me here. Lady Brienne --"

"I must make some arrangements before we leave Riverrun. I will not leave you behind, Podrick, you have my word. Peck, find him somewhere to sleep, and then come back and help me with my hand. Bronn, you go tell the Freys they'll have to wait another day for their new castle."

"Why do **I** have to do it?" Bronn asks.

"Because I cherish the thought of you striking fear into the hearts of Lothor and Walder Frey."

"Someone should have done that when they were little," Bronn grumbles as he saunters out.

"Come on." Peck taps Pod's shoulder. "You can have my spot."

***  
  
Bronn's hand on his shoulder shakes Pod out of a blissfully dreamless sleep on Peck's narrow bed.

"It's time, boy," Bronn says. "Get your things. He's waiting for you in the stables."  
  
Pod pulls on his boots and shrugs on his boiled leather jacket. He doesn't remember taking them off; Peck must have helped him. _I'll thank him when I see him._

"No weapons?" Bronn asks. "That seems foolhardy."

"I put them down," Pod says miserably. "To saddle the horses. And then the Tullys came in and I didn't ..."

Bronn snorts. "Himself is going unarmed too. A fine pair you two make!" He counts off on his fingers. "Lord of Casterly Rock, richest fucking man in Westeros, looks like the Warrior come to life. One crook of his finger, and he could bed any woman he wants ... And what's he doing? Throwing it all away for a big ugly wench. Lannisters! They all want to be loved, never mind that it'll kill them in the end."

"Lady Brienne is not a wench."

Bronn cuffs him on the head. "You're another one."

They're halfway down the tower steps when Pod remembers something. "Bronn, what did you mean, he's throwing it all away?"

"Well, he's not coming back, is he? He winkled the Tullys out of Riverrun like Lann the Clever winkled the Casterlys out of the Rock. And now they want revenge."

"What if Lord Jaime offered them an exchange? Lord Edmure for M'lady?"

"You think yon cunts the Freys would hand over Edmure Tully for your lady? Even with Jaime Lannister to compel them?" Bronn shakes his head. "Not a fucking chance. Not that the thought even crossed his mind, the daft bugger." He whistles. "Didn't think that floppy trout Edmure had it in him for such a plan, to be honest. His uncle the Blackfish now, he was a right stonehearted bastard. Quite capable of taking revenge from beyond the grave, if you ask me."

"He's really dead?" Pod asks.

"So they all swore. One dead man with his face smashed in looks much like any other, so who knows?" Bronn shrugs.

"Maybe the Tullys will take Lord Jaime as a hostage," Pod says hopefully. "Hold him for ransom?"

"They're not asking for hostages, Podrick. They want him to pay for what he's done. Or what they think he's done," Bronn tells him. "And who's there to ransom him anyway? The Queen's got troubles of her own, and the little brother's gods only know where."

"His nephew is King; his uncle is Hand," Pod objects.

"You haven't been in King's Landing in a while, have you? Maybe news travels slow up north. The Holy Sparrow has his claws deep into the King. Got him to banish his own ... uncle ... from the city." Bronn mouth twists. "And speaking of uncles, if Jaime dies, might be Kevan Lannister gets King Tommen to make _him_ Lord of the Rock." He shakes his head. "No, there wouldn't be any help for Jaime there."  
  
Pod's strangely troubled by the thought of leading Lord Jaime to his death. _It's for M'lady, he reminds himself. His life for hers; that's what they said._ Even in his head, the words lack conviction.

"Believe me, Pod," Bronn continues. "He doesn't think he's coming back. All for honor and a pair of blue eyes." He spits. "She does have nice eyes, I'll give her that."

"Don't you care about _anyone_?" Pod asks appalled.

"I care about _me_ , Podrick," Bronn says. "I'm a sellsword, not a hero. Take my advice, and don't you try and be a hero either. They die, and their women fuck other men, and no one remembers their names."

***

"I'll take Honor, and you take Glory, Podrick," Lord Jaime says.

Pod stares, still not quite awake, trying to make out whether this is some lordly joke.

"He means the horses," Peck mutters to him. "The white stallion is his; the blood-bay is for you."

"Don't blame me." Lord Jaime smiles. "Peck named them." Bronn moves to hold Honor's reins while Lord Jaime swings himself into the saddle, graceful despite the unmoving golden hand at the end of his right arm. "You remember your orders, Bronn?"

"No Freys or anyone else allowed in or out of the castle for the rest of this day, save for the 500 men I'm to bring to the fifteenth milestone on the River Road by dawn. We wait until noon; if by then, Lady Brienne doesn't meet us there, I'm to come back to Riverrun, haul Edmure Tully out of his bedchamber, and put his head on a spike above the main gate."

"Good man," Lord Jaime says.

"Not particularly," Bronn replies with a grin.

The blood-bay is big and rangy, and Pod measures the distance from the ground to the saddle with a dubious eye. He might have to jump to catch the stirrup, and he's not sure this horse as placid as this morning's gelding.

"I'll help," Peck says, bending to cup his hands. "She's a good girl, you know. Just big."

"Thank you," Pod says to the top of Peck's head. "For everything. Bringing me to Lord Jaime, and the bed, and taking off my boots and ..."

"You'd do the same for me." Peck straightens as Pod settles into his saddle. "Pod, you care for your lady, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Have a care for my lord, too." Peck's thin solemn face looks up at Pod, with no trace of his easy smile. "He's been good to me."

"I'll try," Pod says miserably. _Until I bring him to his death._

Lord Jaime sweeps out of the stables on his white stallion, but as Glory passes Bronn at a walk, the sellsword reaches for the reins, and stops the horse. _What now?_ Pod wonders.

"Got something for you." Bronn hands Pod a small scabbard. "Slide it into your boot, no one will know it's there. Might be useful. It's little, but it's sharp. Like you." He slaps Glory's rump. "Remember, Podrick," he calls as the horse breaks into a trot. "Don't be a hero."

 


	3. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pod learns a little more about Jaime, an old friend reappears, and justice is seen to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to Desi, for her help with Pod and Jaime!! She's not responsible, of course, for anything that doesn't work!

The Kingslayer seems remarkably calm for a man riding to meet the Stranger. Only his stiff back and the white-knuckled grip of his left hand on Honor's reins betray his errand.

_Have a care for my lord _, Peck had begged.__

__

There is little Pod can do for Ser Jaime, save tell him that his journey towards the Tullys and their vengeance was none of Lady Brienne’s doing. “M’lady commanded me to ride North,” Pod blurts out. “She forbade me to go to Riverrun. She forbade me to bring you to her."

The breath comes out of the Kingslayer in a sharp gasp, as though Pod has punched him in the belly, but the grim set of his jaw loosens and his hand lies softer on the reins.

They ride for a time in companionable silence, broken only by the clop of their horses’ hooves on the road and the hoarse whistles of a pair of swans flying low above the river. 

”Brienne commanded you, and you disobeyed her?” Ser Jaime asks at last.

”Yes, my lord,” Pod replies, and waits for the rebuke that is sure to come. Proper squires do as their lord’s bid them.

”You did well, Podrick,” Ser Jaime says. “Someone needs to save Brienne from herself!”

When Pod was squire to Lord Tyrion, the maids and serving women in the Tower of the Hand and elsewhere in the Red Keep, had spoken freely about the Imp's handsome, older brother. The Kingslayer took no woman to his bed, though he would have found many willing, they said, sighing. The Kingsguard were sworn off women, Pod had objected, but the cooks and washerwomen called him a foolish boy, if he thought the white cloaks kept men chaste. No, they said, Ser Jaime cared for no woman but his sister the Queen. Then, after Lord Stannis had ringed the city with steel and fire, the boldest had whispered that the Kingslayer loved his sister far too well, and that the city would pay the price for their sin.

And yet... and yet ... _The way he looks at her... He could bed any woman he wanted... All for honor and a pair of blue eyes._ Ser Jaime thought M'lady had summoned him to his death, and yet he came anyway.

This is not the first time, Pod realizes with a start. "A bear," Lady Brienne had said once, fingering the long white scars that run down the side of her neck to disappear under her collar. "At Harrenhal. Jaime Lannister saved my life." She said no more than that, and never spoke of it again, much to Pod's chagrin. He considers asking Ser Jaime to tell him the tale, but common sense stills his errant tongue. Bronn would give Pod three different versions of the story without so much as blinking. _And none of them would tell me truly what manner of a man this is. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker._ Yet Lord Tyrion had loved him, and Lady Brienne would give her own life rather than summon him to die in her place.

The sun goes down as they arrive at the mile marker; oak and poplar and aspen still flare russet and gold in its last rays, but its warmth is fast-fading.

"Red sky at night, sailors' delight," Ser Jaime murmurs, looking up at long fingers of blood-red cloud that trail across the deepening sky.

"Beg pardon, my lord?"

Light gathers around him, gilding his upraised face, so he looks like the statue of some ancient hero or king. "Something the fishermen in Lannisport said. I always wondered what they meant. I suppose I'll never find out," he says. The light fades, and Pod sees that he is only a man after all, with tired eyes, and silver in his hair.

They dismount and hobble the horses, a little way from the edge of the road.

"I think we can chance a fire, Podrick," Ser Jaime says. "It will be a cold night." He settles with his back to the mile marker and stretches his long legs in front of him.

"Good lad," he says, after Pod coaxes flames out of the meager assortment of brushwood he's found within sight of the road. "There's a cloak in my pack. Will you fetch it for me? There's one for you as well, if you want it."  
  
"The fire's enough for me, my lord," Pod says.

Ser Jaime winces. "You're young yet. Before my time as Robb Stark's prisoner, it would have been enough for me too. Now I feel the chill like iron in my bones. Bring the wineskin too!"

Pod expects Ser Jaime's cloak will be velvet and vair. Instead he finds a foot-soldier's shabby garment, patched and scratchy, though the pins that Pod helps Ser Jaime fasten are golden lions' heads with eyes of green fire, and the wine tastes of summer sunshine.

"Have you ever had Arbor Gold before, Pod?" Ser Jaime asks, noticing the blissful expression on Pod's face.

"Once or twice, my lord," Pod says. "Lord Tyrion ---"

"Of course." His lip curls. "Tyrion never stinted himself. I suppose he needed something to help him live with our father."

"My lord," Pod ventures, "is there news of Lord Tyrion? Only ... I've heard ..."

"I can guess what you've heard." Ser Jaime snorts. "After the Mountain and the Red Viper slew each other, the murderous little Imp magicked himself out of the Black Cells, slew my father with a thunderbolt, and then vanished in a puff of smoke?"

Pod nods. He'd heard all that and far worse in the inns he and Lady Brienne had visited. But no matter what they believed Lord Tyrion to be, man or monster, all agreed that he was damned to the Seven Hells for murdering his own father.

"No man so accursed as a kinslayer." Ser Jaime's head is bowed, and his words are soft and slow, as though he has forgotten Pod is there. "Unless it be the one who set him on his path. Tyrion loosed the quarrel that killed our father, but I loosed Tyrion."

 _I should not have left Lord Tyrion_ , Pod thinks. _I should have disobeyed as I disobeyed Lady Brienne and I should have stayed and helped him somehow, found witnesses for his trial or ... something._

"I couldn't fight for him." Ser Jaime swallows hard. "And I couldn't let him die. I should have carried him onto that ship myself," he says, lifting his head to look directly at Pod. "Tyrion killed the girl too, left her strangled in my father's bed. But Cersei made sure no one ever spoke of that.

"Girl, my lord?"

"Tyrion's whore," Ser Jaime says. "Pretty, dark-haired, foreign, from one of the Free Cities. She stood up at Tyrion's trial and mocked him, before she said he'd poured the poison in Joffrey's cup. She wasn't so pretty when we found her, poor thing!"

"Shae?" Pod says, shocked. "She wasn't supposed to be there. Lord Tyrion sent her away so she'd be safe."

Ser Jaime's laugh is harsh. "Don't tell me," he says. "Tyrion thought he loved her. Or worse. Did he think she loved him?" He shakes his head. "Mayhap that drove him ..."

A howl sounds, far away, answered by another, not quite far enough for Pod's comfort. He jumps up, and pulls the dagger Bronn gave him from his boot, but a knife won't hold off a wolf. And Ser Jaime is unarmed.

"The Tullys will be here before the wolves are, Podrick. Sit down!" Ser Jaime says. "We were meant to be unarmed, I think. Where did you come by that little thorn?" He nods at the blade in Pod's hand.

"Bronn," Pod confesses, sliding it back into its scabbard. "He thought it might be useful in a tight spot."

"I see," Ser Jaime says. "I daresay Bronn's right. But a knife isn't useful if you can't reach it."

"My lord?"

"Strap it to your forearm, Pod," he says gently. "You can draw it with your other hand, and no one will take your head off while you kneel and fumble with your boot."

Clumsy under Ser Jaime's watchful eyes, Pod unties the strip of leather that held the scabbard in his boot, and fastens it around his left arm. He pulls his sleeve down over the makeshift harness and the dagger, now securely in place, is nearly invisible, save for the slight bulge of its hilt at his wrist.

"Here, have some more wine." See Jaime feeds a few more branches to the fire, his golden hand gleaming in the flames. "I want to know about your travels with Brienne. She never told me how you found Sansa Stark."

"We found Arya Stark first," Pod says proudly. "But then we lost her." He recounts Lady Brienne's fight with Sandor Clegane.

"I wish I could have seen that," Ser Jaime says, with a dazzling white smile that makes Pod smile back, helpless.

Lord Tyrion had told Pod that his older brother had but to crook a finger, and men would follow him into battle, clear-eyed and proud to fight and die for him. "The worst of it is that Jaime doesn't even know he's doing it," Lord Tyrion complained. Now, the warmth of Ser Jaime's regard full upon him, and the sweet crisp wine make Pod bold. "My lord," he asks, "Why did you come here? To this place?" _To the Stranger's embrace._

When Ser Jaime speaks, he is so quiet Pod can scarcely hear him above the hiss and crackle of the last pieces of wood falling into ash. "Edmure Tully asked me how I could live with myself, with all the things I've done." His eyes meet Pod's across the dying fire. "The truth is, it's the things I've left undone that haunt me."

***

The moon stands high and full in a black sky when dozen Tully men materialize out of the shadows to surround Ser Jaime and Pod. They have not bothered with hoods, and their faces are bone-white in the moonlight, with dark glittering hollows for eyes. _As though the dead have come to collect us_ , Pod thinks with a shudder.

The illusion is broken when Alyn Ryger barks out an command to search Ser Jaime and Pod.

"As you see," Ser Jaime says, pushing back the folds of his cloak to reveal that he wears no swordbelt, "I have no blade. And neither does the boy."

"D'you think we'd take your word for it, Kingslayer?" Ryger says. "Search them."

Pod shifts, uncomfortably aware of the dagger strapped to his left arm. If they find it, they will brand Ser Jaime a liar or worse. Luckily, the Tully man is more interested in watching his fellows search Ser Jaime than in doing his own job. One of the advantages of being so ordinary, Pod has discovered, is that people are always preoccupied by his extraordinary companions. Lord Tyrion, Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime: they draw the eyes while Pod escapes everyone's notice. _May that freedom serve me well this night_ , he prays.

"What about that golden hand?" one of the men asks loudly. "We could melt it down and be rich men." Pod recognizes the rough voice and the narrow face of the man who'd hit Lady Brienne.

"I thought you'd summoned me to answer for my crimes, not to rob me," Ser Jaime drawls. "If I'd known, I would have brought a bag of gold and a noose for each of you."

Ryger's jaw clenches. "You may keep the hand, Kingslayer," he spits out. To the narrow-faced man he says, "We are not robbers, Garth. We serve House Tully and justice."

  
***

An icy fingertip of fear strokes down Pod's spine when the Tully men fail to blindfold them. He meets Ser Jaime's eyes, dark in the brilliant moonlight, and realizes that they have the same thought; it does not matter to the Tullys that their prisoners know the way to the mill. They will not ride down this path again, on this night, or any other.

 _Think, Pod, think!_ When they reach the mill, if he can get close enough to Ryger to use the knife Bronn gave him, then mayhap he can get M'lady her sword. And one for Ser Jaime. He was the greatest swordsman in Westeros, Lord Tyrion said. _When he had two hands._ Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime, crippled, and Pod against ... _How many?_ A dozen Tully men escort them, and there must be others guarding M'lady. _The sword._ He must get Oathkeeper to Lady Brienne. And find another blade for Ser Jaime. If he can fight... His thoughts sing the same round, over, and over, and over, until Pod thinks he'll go mad.

By the time they emerge from the trees into a clearing beside the mill, clouds obscure the moon, softening its light into a silvery mist that blurs the edges of the trees. A gust of wind rustles the dry leaves of a great oak standing sentinel at the other side of the clearing and Pod hears it whisper, _Think, Pod, think!_  Something cold lands on his nose, and melts, breaking the spell of moonlight and mist. Another follows and then another, large, fat, wet flakes that disappear before they touch the ground.

Garth pounds on the great doors of the mill, which open to reveal near a hundred men packed inside, some dressed in black and brown, others flaunting bright Tully surcoats in blue and red. They ring another, taller figure, whose back is turned, but whose pale hair is unmistakeable.

"The Kingslayer," Ryger announces, his voice cutting through the din of many men speaking at once. M'lady's hunched shoulders straighten and she turns to face the doors of the mill, as Ryger's men shove Ser Jaime forward until he is standing before her. Pod follows in the wake of his captors, who seem to have forgotten his presence entirely. He uses elbows and apologies to sidle into a spot in the second row of the men who surround M'lady and Ser Jaime.

Lady Brienne wears only a loose shirt and her dark breeches; her boots are missing, and her long bony feet are starkly white against the floor. The bruise on her jaw has ripened into a shiny purple, and dark circles ring her wide blue eyes. Her lips part when she sees Ser Jaime, but that momentary eagerness is overtaken by dismay. "No," she mouths, as the crowd's unquiet hum turns into words. "Kingslayer!" one man calls out. "Hang him!"

A shudder runs through M'lady, but her eyes never waver from Ser Jaime's face. He reaches a gentle finger to the mark on her face, and asks her something Pod cannot hear. She shakes her head.

 _They lied_ , Pod thinks. They said they would release Lady Brienne if the Kingslayer came in her stead; Ser Jaime came, and yet they still hold her. _Have we been gulled? If Bronn were here, he'd laugh at how trusting I was._

Another voice shouts, "Hang them both! Him and his whore!"

Ser Jaime's chin lifts, and he bares his white teeth at the speaker. In that instant, Pod can believe him a lion, ready to tear out a man's throat, but Lady Brienne's hand on his right arm gentles him. They move closer to each other, until they stand shoulder to shoulder.  

"I didn't think you'd come, Kingslayer." A gruff voice rises above the noise of the crowd, which falls silent. The Blackfish, iron-gray hair and iron-gray armor black in the torchlight, descends from the upper story of the mill. His boots stamp a slow, deliberate rhythm on the wooden floor, and the crowd parts before him until he is standing face to face with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne.

"I didn't think you were alive," Ser Jaime replies.

"We were both mistaken, then." The Blackfish shrugs "There are corpses aplenty in the Riverlands. Easy enough to find one that resembled me. When you sent Edmure to surrender Riverrun, you forgot the words of our House."

"Family, Duty, Honor," Lady Brienne says slowly.

 _Where is the honor in using M'lady, who never wronged you, as bait?_ Pod wonders. The old man didn't seem overly concerned about family either, considering his refusal to come fight for Lady Sansa.

"Family, Duty, Honor," the Blackfish repeats. "Did you truly think Edmure would give me up in chains to the Freys? We made a plan for my escape."

"You seemed willing enough to let Lothor Frey cut his throat," Ser Jaime says. "Edmure must be a very forgiving man."

The Blackfish laughs. "I told him how we could be avenged on you, and restore our family's honor," he says. "And that was enough to earn his forgiveness."

Ser Jaime's eyes narrow. "I have come, as you bid me. Let Lady Brienne go free, as you promised!"

"You are an anointed knight, Ser Brynden," M'lady says, frowning. "Lady Catelyn's kin, and Lady Sansa's. Why would you not fight for her? I trusted you."

"Whereas, I, my lady, never trusted you," the Blackfish says, slow and clear so every man in the mill can hear him. "There was always a stink of lion about you. A Valyrian steel blade is a kingly gift even for the dearest of friends; yet, you would have me believe the Kingslayer gave it to you to protect the daughter of his enemy?" His mouth tightens, as though he's bitten into a sour apple.

"He did," M'lady says firmly. "And I did. As best I could."

"So you claim. Have you not heard, lady, that the Starks made war on the Lannisters? All the Seven Kingdoms know Sansa's wanted for Joffrey's murder." The Blackfish gestures towards Ser Jaime. "The Kingslayer's nephew. Or his son, some say." Mocking laughter ripples through the crowd. "Sisterfucker!" someone shouts.

The Blackfish ignores the laughter and the shout. "He sent you for Sansa's head, didn't he?" 

 _No. We saved Sansa Stark_ , Pod wants to shout in turn. _We found her in the snow, and but for M'lady, Sansa would have died._ But if he speaks, the Tullys may notice him, and any chance that he has to help M'lady and Ser Jaime will end.

"No," Lady Brienne cries. "Ser Jaime sent me to help Lady Sansa, and I did, as best I could."

"You must think me a great fool to believe your lies, lady," the Blackfish replies. "There's no sense in this tale."

"Brienne doesn't lie," Ser Jaime says, dagger-sharp. "She's incapable of it. And you are a great fool if you cannot see that."

Lady Brienne's brow furrows. "I brought you a letter in Sansa's own hand."

"And I told you," the Blackfish says. "I have not seen her since she was a little girl no higher than my knee, and I've never seen her hand before." He snorts. "If it was Sansa Stark who wrote that letter ... Rumor has her wed to a Lannister and then a Bolton, the sons of men who slew her mother and her brother. Who's to say she didn't write it with a knife at her throat?"

"You said you knew my father," she says, her voice breaking on the last word.

"Aye," he says. "I knew the Evenstar of Tarth. And I know that you shame him with every word you speak on behalf of the Kingslayer."

Lady Brienne flinches at the blow, and Pod flinches with her. On the rare occasions when M'lady talks about Tarth, or her father, her voice softens. Her father would be proud of her, if he knew what she has done. How could he not be?

Ser Jaime reaches for the sword that is not there; his hand hovers at his waist for an instant, and then drops to his side. When he speaks, his words fall like stones from his mouth. "You are the one who shames your name, Ser Brynden. Brienne kept all her oaths, to your niece, and to her daughter. She would have fought beside _you_ , if I'd stormed Riverrun. She's more honorable than you, or I, or any man in this room."

The Blackfish takes a step back, into the mass of his men. "Very well," he says. "If I judge her truthful, she shall go free, when we are done with you."

***

"Ser Jaime, of the House Lannister, you stand here accused by Ser Brynden of the House Tully; by Alyn Ryger, Master at Arms of Riverrun; by Garth of Shieldbrook; by Henly, Jeren, Tom, Luke, and other men who serve House Tully, of conspiring with the Lords Tywin Lannister, Roose Bolton and Walder Frey to break guest-right, to murder our King, Robb Stark, and countless of his subjects, " Alyn Ryger reads.

"No," Lady Brienne cries out, from her spot beside Ser Brynden. "You are wrong. He was not there; he was with me. He did not conspire at the Red Wedding. I swear to you, it was not his doing."

 _They seek vengeance for the Red Wedding, not justice. Small wonder they used M'lady so_ , Pod thinks. There are no Freys or Boltons here, and only one Lannister. And one other, who defends a Lannister to his enemies, and wears a sword with a golden lion on its hilt. M'lady would not be M'lady if she were less honest, but there are times when Pod wishes she spoke the truth in a more honeyed voice. What if they decide _she_ should stand trial too?

"Save your breath, Brienne!" Ser Jaime says. "They will not listen."

He is alone, in the center of the circle of men; torchlight crowns his hair with gold, and glitters off his golden cloakpins and golden hand, and the men around Pod watch him with both hatred and hunger in their eyes.  _They would tear him limb from limb,_ Pod thinks,  _not just for what he has done, but for the pride he wears like armor._

"Silence, Kingslayer. And you as well, my lady. You may speak in turn, but for now, be silent unless you wish for a gag. Now," the Blackfish says, addressing the men in the mill, "Alyn, you are my first witness."

Alyn Ryger steps forward to look Ser Jaime in the face; his gaze is returned, unblinking. "My uncle Robin rode to the Twins with King Robb. At the feast, the Freys and the Boltons slit his throat, and threw him into the river. It was so choked with corpses that he stayed above the waterline for three days, until the butcher's lad found him and brought word."

The next witness is the narrow-faced man named Garth, the one who hit M'lady and sought to steal Ser Jaime's golden hand. "My sister Elinor was a maid of sixteen. As pretty as a flower," he says. "The baker's apprentice would have married her, but my mother said they had to wait until he got his articles." He smiles, remembering; his smile twists as he remembers other, less pleasant things. "The Young Wolf's Queen took Elinor with her as a lady's maid, being as she was a foreigner and had no ladies to attend her. And her boy Lukas went along too. She never came back, nor Lukas, nor the Queen neither."

 _He is not a good man_ , Pod thinks. _He struck my lady, and laughed._ But is it grief that turned him? Or do bad men love as well as good ones?

The boy who served Pod and Brienne their food at Riverrun is next. He wears a doublet of Tully red and blue. "I was named Hoster for the old lord," he says proudly. Two brothers and his father died at the Twins. "And my mother sickened after," he finishes, "and died of grief."

One by one, twoscore men and twelve step forward into the circle to face Ser Jaime, whose head is flung back, and whose face is a pale, unreadable mask. They speak the hundred names of their dead: fathers and brothers, sisters and cousins, sworn swords, bowmen, chandlers and coopers and stewards, maids and laundresses and seamstresses, all gone to the Twins, with Robb Stark and his army, and taken untimely from those who loved them.

Ser Brynden speaks last. "My niece," he says. "Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. Her son, Robb Stark, the King in the North. His wife, the lady Talisa."

The names echo through the silent mill, until at last they crumble into the dust.

***

The Blackfish asks, "Does any man speak for the Kingslayer?"

"I will speak for him." Lady Brienne's voice rings out like a bell. "I grieve for your losses, all of them, and most of all for Lady Catelyn whom I served. But I swear to you, to all of you, on my life, and on my father's life, that Ser Jaime played no part in this betrayal. Lady Catelyn sent him with me to King's Landing. I swear that the first he heard of the Red Wedding was when we neared the city."

Pod remembered how the news had shocked everyone in King's Landing, and how Lady Sansa had wept until her eyes swelled shut, and Lord Tyrion had drunk a half dozen flagons of Dornish red that day. "My wife will murder me in my sleep some day," he'd said. "And I can't say that I blame her."

The Blackfish nods. "I see that you believe the Kingslayer innocent of such treachery, my lady. Tell me, were you with him, night and day, for all the days you traveled to King's Landing?"

"No," M'lady admits. "Roose Bolton sent Ser Jaime alone to King's Landing and made me stay at Harrenhal."

"So you cannot know if they plotted together, when you were not present?"

"I know they did not," Lady Brienne says. "Lord Bolton left me as a plaything for his man Locke, and Locke threw me to a bear after my father couldn't give him the sapphires he wanted."

"A bear?" Garth calls out. "It was fairer than the maiden, I'll wager. And less hairy than this freak."

"Silence," thunders the Blackfish. "I'll not have you speak so, Garth!"

Pod glance shifts from Garth, shamefaced at the rebuke, to Ser Jaime, whose eyes promise murder.

M'lady shakes off the interruption, as though it were no more than a fleabite. "Jaime came back," she says. "He jumped onto the sand unarmed, and he saved me. He nearly died himself."

Ser Jaime shakes his head. _This story will not endear her to these men_ , Pod thinks. Better she had stayed silent.

"I swear to you," Lady Brienne finishes, "Jaime is not the man you think he is. He is not the man he was."

"Is that so?" the Blackfish says, with a mirthless grin. "Tell me, my lady, do you know why my nephew gave up Riverrun? Did your friend here tell you what he threatened to do, if Edmure did not surrender the castle that very night?"

Ser Jaime takes a long, deep breath.

"This man," the Blackfish points to Ser Jaime, "told Edmure that he'd send his child over the walls of Riverrun in a catapult, unless Edmure convinced me to surrender. So you see, my lady," he says, with all the pleasure of being right when someone else is wrong, "it seems that the Kingslayer has not changed very much after all."

"Child-killer," one of the men shouts. "Hang him!" Others take up the cry, until a glare from the Blackfish silences them.

M'lady's chin quivers and her voice comes out unsteady. "Is this true, Jaime?"

Ser Jaime lets out the breath he's been holding. "Oh yes," he says, hard and cold as steel. "What does some Tully brat mean to me?"

"Do you still defend him?" the Blackfish asks M'lady.

Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and then she opens them and shakes her head, though she still watches Ser Jaime, with a slight, puzzled frown.

Pod is puzzled too. _Surely they would have told us_ , he thinks. He cannot imagine that Ser Brynden would forbear to share his outrage if the Kingslayer had flung a babe over the walls of Riverrun while they waited for the battle.

Ser Jaime gives M'lady a quick, sharp smile, meant to draw blood. Her shoulders sag, and she looks away. _Why does he seem ... satisfied?_ Pod wonders. _As though he's just got something he badly wanted._ If only he'd explained, Lady Brienne would defend him till her last breath. _Oh, Pod, you're a fool. Of course_! Lord Tyrion had tried to do the same for Shae, to make her hate him, so she'd be safe. He can almost hear Bronn's scornful voice. _Lannisters!_

"Will you speak in your own defense, Kingslayer?" Ser Brynden asks.

"Is there any point, Blackfish?"

"Hang him," young Hoster cries. "Let him pay for what he did." Other men take up the cry until the Blackfish raises his hands to call for silence.

"I have not pronounced judgment yet," he says.

"Why the delay?" Ser Jaime asks. "Do you find me such pleasant company?"

"On the contrary." Ser Brynden's face is grim. "The world will be a better place when men like you no longer walk in the light of day." He turns slowly, as he speaks, so all of the men in the mill can see him pronounce the sentence. "I, Brynden Tully, find Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, guilty of the crimes of which he is accused, and sentence him to ---"

Alan Ryger holds up a knotted noose at the end of a length of rope.

"Wait!" Lady Brienne cries, stepping forward until she stands between Ser Jaime and the Blackfish. "Ser Brynden, wait! Tell me, where is Lord Edmure's child now?"

The Blackfish shrugs. "At the Twins, so far as I know, along with his mother."

"So Ser Jaime never threw him over the walls of Riverrun?" She is almost smiling now, confident in her victory.

The Blackfish purses his lips. "No. But Edmure believed he would and surrendered the castle before he could."

"But ... he did not do it. Family, duty, honor, Ser Brynden. Where is the honor in hanging a man for the name he bears? For a threat that was never turned into a deed? I tell you truly, Ser Jaime Lannister had no hand in the Red Wedding, and you know as well as I that he did not harm so much as a hair on the head of Lord Edmure's babe."

Pod cannot see Ser Jaime, but his soft groan is audible. If M'lady knew what he intended, she never would have agreed, but unknowing, she has destroyed the escape Ser Jaime wrought for her.

It seems, though, that her words and her transparent honesty have moved the Blackfish to some other plan. He beckons to Alyn Ryger, and they confer in a soft murmur that is drowned out by the increasingly loud voices of the men who press ever closer to M'lady and Ser Jaime. How long can Ser Brynden control them, if he cares to try? Pod edges closer as well; if nothing else, he can bury his knife in someone's back, and give M'lady time to snatch a weapon. Not much, but it would be _something_.

"Enough!" Ser Brynden bellows. "Lady Brienne has raised some small doubt about Ser Jaime's guilt. I have decided that he will have the chance to prove his innocence with his own body. He shall have a trial by combat."

Pod stares at M'lady, who is smiling in relief. _She's done it_ , he thinks. She's a better fighter than any of this lot, Pod would wager. She'll fight and win and save him.

"I will be his champion," M'lady cries.

Ser Jaime shakes his head. "I've never had anyone else fight a battle for me, Brienne. But this is one battle I will not fight at all. Set her free," he says to Ser Brynden, "and I'll go meek as a lamb into your halter."

"Jaime, are you mad?" Brienne gasps. "Ser Brynden is giving you a chance to prove your innocence."

"Oh," says Ser Jaime, his voice smooth as silk. "I rather thought Ser Brynden was trying to salve his conscience. Roose Bolton and my father have gone to whichever of the seven hells won't spit them out, and Walder Frey is beyond his reach, so he's left with me. But there's a tiny part of him that knows hanging a man just for his name isn't ... honorable." The word is bitter on his lips. "When I die with a sword in my hand, Ser Brynden can say the gods found me guilty, and that he was carrying out justice. But I want no part of this mummers' farce. Hang me, if you please, Ser, but my lady must go free, as you swore she should."

The crowd swells and shifts; only a cough and the scrape of a boot break the heavy silence, like the hush that precedes a summer storm, when no birds sing. _And then comes the crash of thunder, and white fire from the heavens._

"I won't leave you," Lady Brienne is near tears now. "You must fight, Jaime. A slender chance is better than none."

"I swore an oath, remember?" he tells her. "Lady Catelyn made me swear not take up arms against Tully or Stark."

"A most convenient vow, Kingslayer, to remember now," Ser Brynden observes. A ripple of laughter spreads amongst the men in the mill.

The Blackfish nods to Ryger who comes to stand at M'lady's shoulder, the noose still dangling from his hand. "If you do not fight, then the lady will hang beside you."

Pod's hands are ice cold and clammy, and his heart pounds in his ears. _Do something_ , he tells himself. He slides the knife inside his sleeve slightly from its scabbard, so the hilt lies quiet in his palm.

"Let her go, Blackfish!" Beads of sweat have gathered on Ser Jaime's brow; his left hand is clenched tight by his side. "Gut me, or string me up from that big tree outside. Either way, you'll avenge your niece's murder. But Lady Brienne is innocent. Let her go; she'd never harm her lady's kin."

 _Doubtful_ , Pod thinks. She'll hunt down every last one of these men if they kill Jaime Lannister, just as she repaid Lord Renly's death. Small comfort that brought her, though.

"I've left orders," Ser Jaime continues. His voice is strained but level. "If Lady Brienne isn't at the milestone marker on the River Road by noon, your nephew's head will adorn a spike over the main gate at Riverrun. The Freys will be only too happy to oblige."

"The sword for you, or the noose for both," the Blackfish says, adamant.

"And Edmure?"

"Edmure will be happy to die, if it means a measure of justice given to the Lannisters. Besides, he's eager to atone for being the Tully who gave up Riverrun after a thousand years."

Ser Jaime rubs his temples before he speaks again. "His words, Blackfish, or yours? A man with a new bride, and a babe he's never seen, might well wish to live. Did you give him that choice?"

"A child who'll be raised by Lannisters; a bride he fucked while her family was murdering his," the Blackfish says. "Enough, Kingslayer. I'm done bandying words with you." The Blackfish nods at Ryger, who slips the noose over Lady Brienne's head. "The sword for you, or the noose for both. Choose!"

M'lady's eyes are huge and dark, and there is a smear of blood on her lip where she's bitten it. Ser Jaime takes one long look at her, and then turns to Ser Brynden.

"I choose the sword," he says, bowing his head. 


	4. The Things We Do for Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lion still has claws, and Podrick Payne reluctantly finds himself drawn into new allegiances to help save Lady Brienne.

"I thought you'd see reason," the Blackfish says, looking as smug as a cat that's found an unguarded bucket of cream.

"Reason?" Ser Jaime repeats, with a curl of his lip. "A reasonable man would have kept his word and set Lady Brienne free, not played these games with sword and noose."

"Mayhap." Ser Brynden shrugs. "Still ... I haven't had a proper swordfight in years and I always wondered if you were as good as they said, Kingslayer."

"If you hungered so for my steel, why not challenge me at Riverrun?" Ser Jaime asks. "Single combat to save your home and your men's lives, instead of this show of justice that gains you nothing."

"Where was the need at Riverrun? I could have held it for years. We had allies on the outside; had it not been for Edmure ... No matter. That's done." Ser Brynden shakes his head. "As for what I gain ... My niece's bones, and her son's and his queen's, and the bones of all who died cry out for vengeance. When I carve your black heart out of your chest, they shall have it."

"Vengeance!" The men around Pod take up the call. Their shouts echo off the walls and up into the rafters, until it seems that the very stones clamor for blood.

Ser Jaime waits for the mob to quiet before he throws his words down like a mailed glove at Ser Brynden's feet. "Your man Ryger said you served justice. Are justice and vengeance the same in your experience?"

 _He seeks to prick the old man's honor. To shame him into keeping his promises concerning M'lady._ Ser Jaime is as single-minded as Lady Brienne, Pod realizes approvingly, and nearly as skilled as his brother at turning the sharp edges of men's words back against them.

The Blackfish will not bite Ser Jaime's hook. "Words are wind," he says. "But I do call it justice that you sent this lady into Riverrun, to be the instrument of my vengeance." He pauses, savoring his words. "Ryger wagered you'd save your own worthless skin, instead of hers. But the way she spoke of you, Kingslayer ... I gambled that you'd come for her, and I was right."

He meant that thrust for Ser Jaime, but his words pierce M'lady instead. The blood drains from her cheeks, leaving them the color of curdled milk. "Forgive me, Jaime," she says.

A vein throbs in Ser Jaime's forehead and his lips are clamped in a thin, pale line.

 _You cannot blame her,_ Pod tells Ser Jaime silently. _You must not._ Lady Brienne had trusted the Blackfish because he was kin to Catelyn and Sansa Stark, and she had refused to be the bait for Ser Jaime. _Save your anger for the Blackfish. And for me, who brought you here. And for the Freys who broke the laws of gods and men to betray their guests at the Red Wedding, and for your father, who set them on that path._ Truly, vengeance is a wheel that never stops turning, no matter what stands in its way. But whatever guilt others may bear, M'lady is blameless.

Ser Jaime sees it too; his face softens as he meets Lady Brienne's pleading eyes. Slow and deliberate as a man calming a skittish horse, Ser Jaime takes her hand in his, uncurls her clenched fingers, and raises her rough knuckles to his lips. "There is nothing to forgive," he says. "You have never broken faith with me. Or with any man here." His mouth hardens as he contemplates the Blackfish. "Would that they could say the same!"

Ser Brynden has the grace to look abashed for the instant before he turns on his heel and bellows: "Open the doors!"

The oaken doors creak open to let in a gust of cold air, welcome amidst the fug of so many bodies packed tight in the mill. The ranks of Tully men part before the Blackfish and close up again behind him, so Alyn Ryger and the five men flanking Jaime Lannister must force their way through.

As they pass, a low, wordless rumble of anger rolls through the mill like distant thunder. The balding man pressed close to Pod's right side, whose ginger tufts of hair bristle in different directions, steps directly into Ser Jaime's path. "My eldest died at the Twins," he shouts. "The Blackfish should have hanged you." Before Ryger can shove him aside, he spits full into Jaime Lannister's face.

Ser Jaime walks on, heedless of the wetness on his face, or the angry men around him, his eyes bent on something far away. At the doors, he pauses to look back at Lady Brienne. For a heartbeat, brightness descends upon him, like sunlight on rippling water; then he turns, squares his shoulders, and strides into the dark.

***

Pod plants his feet wide, and angles his elbows to avoid being swept up amidst the stream of Tully men who follow. He pushes, and shoves, until he has a wall solid at his back, and he's so close to M'lady that he can see the small white scar on her upper lip and the sweat beading on her forehead.

Four men still linger, keeping watch over Lady Brienne: the boy Hoster; the man Garth, whose sister had died with Robb Stark's queen; and two others, whom the Blackfish had named Jeren and Luke. All of them seek vengeance against Jaime Lannister for the deaths of kin and comrades, butchered at the Red Wedding. They have little love for Lady Brienne, either, from the way they wrench her arms behind her back, and rope her wrists cruelly tight.

She offers them no resistance; Pod has never seen her so docile. _Why doesn't she fight them?_ The answer comes readily to him. _Ser Jaime._ Her mind and her heart are outside in the moonlight where Jaime Lannister readies himself for battle.

Pod sends a silent plea to the Warrior and the Maiden, for surely, Lady Brienne belongs to both of them. _Protect her,_ he begs. _Even against herself. Or give me strength and courage to do it in your stead._ As if an answer, the leather sheath of his knife presses against his forearm under his sleeve.

"Boy," Garth calls out. "Come here!"

Pod tenses, afraid that they mean to bind him as well; he will be of no use to M'lady trussed up like a goose. He considers whether he can use his knife to get himself a sword, but there is no need, for Garth's incurious eyes slide over Pod's face, as though he were just another one of the Tullys.

 _Thank you,_ Pod whispers, inside his head, not to the Warrior or the Maiden, nor to any of those to whom he has prayed since he first learned the words. It is the other whose favor he seeks now, the Stranger who comes, hooded and cloaked, his face hidden from the living, the one whose realm lies in darkness.

"Boy," Garth repeats. "Take one of those torches and light our way. Ryger says we're to bring the woman outside too."

Jeren takes the other end of the noose and leads M'lady out. _Like a dog on a leash,_ Pod thinks bitterly, as he snatches the nearest torch from a ring on the wall, and hurries to keep up.

"Luke, you're a kennelmaster." Garth's laughter echoes harshly in the empty mill. "Tell me true. Is this the ugliest bitch you've ever seen?"

Luke ignores him, and the boy Hoster shakes his head, but Jeren laughs. Pod imagines thrusting his torch full into Garth's face, knocking the others' heads together until their skulls ring. There will be a reckoning, he vows. May it be a heavy one. And may it come soon.

***

Outside the mill, fresh-fallen snow crunches under Pod's feet; a few tatters of cloud float across the moon's white face, casting sinuous shadows on the open ground. The Tully men have fanned out from the open doors to form three sides of an open square, with the mill's wall as the fourth; Ser Jaime and Ser Brynden will battle for innocence and guilt in the midst of that square.

Lady Brienne winces as she steps onto the untouched snow. She's still barefoot, Pod realizes in horror. At the Wall, the men of the Night's Watch had shown him their scars, the stubs of ears, and fingers and toes lost to the hungry cold of the North; they'd meant to frighten him, the soft Southern lad in their midst, and they'd succeeded. If M'lady is made to stand with a noose around her neck for however long it takes the gods to judge Jaime Lannister, her poor bare feet will freeze.

"Come on!" Jeren jerks the noose around M'lady's neck. She stumbles and falls, provoking raucous laughter from Garth. With her hands bound behind her, she can neither break her fall nor push herself back up from her knees.

Jeren pulls the noose again. "Get up, you clumsy bitch."

"Stop!" the boy Hoster says. "She can't, with her hands tied." He turns to one of the others. "Luke, help me!" The two reach under Lady Brienne's arms, and haul her to back on her feet.

The wavering line of M'lady's footprints in the snow decides Pod; he can redress none of the wrongs she has suffered on this night at the hands of men who should have been her allies. But he can avert this small cruelty. _And I will._ Pod is no hero, but whatever else happens this night, whether Ser Jaime wins or loses, whether the Blackfish keeps his promise or not, M'lady's feet will be warm.

He hangs back from the men escorting Lady Brienne, and turns purposefully toward the open doors of the mill. _Don't hesitate_ , Bronn had told him, when he'd asked how a sellsword had come to command a Lannister army. _Look like you belong, and ninety-nine men out of a hundred will never question you._ The problem is, Pod's never looked like he belonged, no more than Lord Tyrion or Lady Brienne look like they belong. _And they ignore the whispers and the cruel words and do what needs doing. And so must you, Podrick Payne_ , he orders himself. _Stand tall, and remember your duty._

His luck holds as he strides briskly past a line of Tullys, whose eyes are on the knot of men around the huge tree opposite the mill. A gleam of golden hair explains their interest. They are far too busy watching Ser Jaime to question Pod's errand, or who sent him.

Inside the mill, Pod's torch's flickering light discloses that he is alone. He crosses the mill floor, and pauses at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the darkness above. Down those stairs, Ser Brynden had made his entrance, as keenly timed as any mummer's show. And if he and Ryger wanted to keep M'lady's finely-wrought armor and Valyrian sword from the hands of men like Garth, who'd wanted Ser Jaime's golden hand to melt for coin? _I'd put all those things away out of sight of my men, who might be tempted._

There is likely hay there as well, to feed the Tully horses; Pod cannot risk a fire, though, if M'lady were free, and armed, burning down the mill would make a fine distraction for their escape. Most likely, though, he'd burn himself along with the mill, and M'lady's boots, and where would that leave M'lady? He puts his torch in the bracket beside the stairs.

Moonlight streams through the broken windows upstairs, revealing bales of hay stacked almost to the rafters, and in the corner, a pair of boots, an unwieldy pile of metal and neatly folded clothing, and on the top, like a decoration, a golden lion's head with winking ruby eyes. He reaches for the sword as well as the boots; once he's cut M'lady's bonds, she can fight her way clear while the Tullys are watching Ser Jaime and Ser Brynden.

 _And how would I hide Valyrian steel or explain why I'm carrying it?_ Anyway, Lady Brienne wouldn't leave Ser Jaime to die alone. Then she'll save Ser Jaime too, he tells himself, just as she saved Lady Sansa and Theon Greyjoy from the Boltons. _They were seven; these are a hundred._

He places Oathkeeper gently back atop the pile of armor as voices sound from below.

"My lord, he is the Kingslayer," Alyn Ryger says, aggrieved. "A man lost to honor."

Pod snatches up Lady Brienne's boots and retreats into the deep pool of shadow cast by a tower of hay-bales.

"True," the Blackfish agrees, his voice disagreeably close to Pod. He and Ryger are both in the loft now, and Pod imagines they can hear the the thud of his heart, and the faint whistle of his shallow breaths.

The Blackfish lifts Lady Brienne's swordbelt, and draws Oathkeeper from its scabbard, turning it this way and that. Moonlight darkens the blood-red and smoke-gray waves of the blade to uniform black as the Blackfish tries a stroke. "The balance of the blade," he sighs. "I've never held anything like it."

"Then use it, my lord," Ryger urges. "Take it for your own"

"The Kingslayer is forsworn, a liar, and an oathbreaker," the Blackfish replies, sliding Oathkeeper back into its scabbard. "But I am not. I told him to choose his weapon out of any in this camp; and now I must honor his choice."

Pod lips twitch at how cleverly Ser Jaime has already drawn first blood. He questioned the old man's honor, loudly and in public, and now the Blackfish cannot break his word and refuse Ser Jaime the advantage of Valyrian steel in their fight.

"The men won't like it," Ryger says at last.

"The men will like what I tell them to like," the Blackfish says, his voice grating. "Are we Wildlings or Ironborn that they should think to question me?"

"No, my lord," Ryger replies. "But they hunger for justice."

"As do we all. The Seven will guide my hand tonight," the Blackfish promises. "Now," he says, moving away from Pod's hiding place, "come and help me with my armor, and then bring this sword to the Kingslayer."

***

Pod waits until their footsteps have receded before he creeps down the stairs, Lady Brienne's boots tucked under his left arm. He reaches for his torch, and holding it up, recognizes his error. Ser Brynden and Ryger have gone no farther than the alcove where Pod and M'lady found the horses yesterday morning. It might have been a hundred years ago, for all that's happened since, and Pod curses himself for walking into another trap, though this one was not laid on purpose.

Mercifully, Ser Brynden is standing with his back to Pod, arms outstretched while Ryger armors him. The Blackfish is a tall man, who blocks Ryger's view. _Quick and quiet,_ Pod tells himself, _and you'll be out before they turn._

He's at the threshold of the mill when one of the boots slips, and lands with a thump on the hard floor. Pod bends to pick it up, and freezes as Ser Brynden whirls around. His breastplate dangles on one side where Ryger has not finished fastening it, but there is naked steel in his hand.

"Stop," Ser Bryden barks.

Pod straightens slowly, the errant boot held loosely in his hand. _Seven save me._

"Who are you?" the Blackfish asks, striding forward until he and his sword are an uncomfortable arm's length from Pod. "You're not one of my men."

An invisible hand wraps around Pod's throat, choking him so he cannot speak.

"He's the squire," Ryger says, frowning. "The one we sent to fetch the Kingslayer."

Ser Brynden nods. "What are you doing here, creeping around?"

 _Think,_ Pod! _Think!_ Amidst the tangled thicket of his thoughts, he can reach for no plausible lie. So he tells the truth instead. "B-b-boots." He holds them up, and the hand around his throat relaxes. "M'lady's boots."

"You sent her out there barefoot?" The Blackfish rounds on Ryger. There is an edge to his voice that startles Pod, and Ryger too by the looks of him.

"I ...." Ryger blinks. "I did not think ... "

"She is Selwyn Tarth's daughter," Ser Brynden says. "I did not intend for her to be mistreated."

Both Pod and Ryger gape at the Blackfish in disbelief. _He put a noose around M'lady's neck, and called it justice, but he balks at wet feet?_   Perhaps Ser Jaime's jabs have gone deeper than any of them realized. Perhaps the old man regrets using Lady Brienne so ill, though it is not in him to apologize. Regardless, Pod's heart lifts a little; perhaps the Blackfish will keep his promise to let them go after ... _After he kills Ser Jaime. Or Ser Jaime kills Lady Sansa's uncle. Oh my lady! Whoever wins this fight, you will be the loser._

The Blackfish looks as though the weight of all his years has descended upon him at once.

"Go on, lad," he says, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "Take your mistress her boots."

***

With Ser Brynden's sanction for his errand, there is no longer any need for Pod to keep to the shadows. His torch held high, he marches straight past the Tullys who surround the square outside the mill, to where M'lady waits under the great tree, separated from Ser Jaime by his guards and hers. They have thrown the other end of her noose around a massive branch, so they need only tighten it to choke the life from Lady Brienne.

Up close, Pod realizes that this tree is no oak, but something far older and deeply uncanny; he remembers seeing the massed ranks of its brooding cousins, north of the Wall. Its bark is as white as the snow lying in the hollows of its ancient roots, and in the light of day, its leaves will be the deep red of fresh-spilled blood. At the Wall, he'd heard tell that all the weirwoods were gone in the South, put to the axe and fed to the flames, but this one thrives still, perhaps the last, ancient, survivor of its slaughtered race. Pod shivers, though not from the cold.

His movement, or the shifting light of his torch, bring him the unwelcome attention of M'lady's guards.

"What do you want, boy?" the kennelmaster Luke asks, not unkindly.

"I have m'lady's boots," Pod says. "Her feet will freeze."

Garth's narrow mouth twists. "What do we care if the bitch is cold? She'll be colder still when we hang her for a traitor."

"I'm not ---." M'lady's words are is cut off by a jerk on the other end of her noose, and she subsides into a wordless cough.

"Aye," Jeren says, his hand still tugging the rope around her neck. "We'll hang her beside her the Kingslayer's carcass!"

"The Blackfish said nothing about that ---" Hoster protests. "Not about hanging the woman..."

"Mayhap he forgot," Garth says. "And mayhap we'll remind him."

 _Easy,_ Pod tells himself, biting down on the inside of his mouth to keep his own angry words from spilling out. These men's tempers are as hot and unchancy as wildfire, and nothing will be served by provoking them. 

"Ser Brynden's orders," he says, mildly. "He sent me with her boots." M'lady can't abide lies, but this is a small one and in a good cause.

"Leave off, Garth," Luke says. "Ser Brynden has his reasons, no doubt. Go on, then, lad, do what you must."

He clears his throat, sinks to his knees before Lady Brienne, boots in hand, and taps her calf. "Lift your foot, M'lady," he says, brisk and matter-of-fact. "I'll have your boots on in no time."

She balances on each leg in turn, awkward as a wingless heron, while he chafes her icy toes, trying to warm them before he slips on shapeless socks and heavy boots. The hiss of her indrawn breath encourages him to rub harder. If she feels pain, she'll be all right. It's only dead flesh that doesn't feel the cold, the Northmen told him.

M'lady steps into the second boot he's holding steady. "Th- thank ..." she says, before she has to clench her jaw tight to stop her teeth from chattering. Shivers rack her, and it's no wonder, dressed as she is in a thin linen shirt and leather breeches. _I should've taken Ser Jaime's cloak when he offered it,_ Pod thinks. _I didn't know --- she could have used it._

"Kingslayer!" he hears from behind him, the shout followed by the scrape of swords swiftly drawn. "What are you doing?"

Pod scrambles to his feet and turns, to see Jaime Lannister walking towards the group clustered around M'lady, his pace as measured and deliberate as a court dance. His advance forces the guards to move away from him, to keep the necessary distance between him and their drawn blades. For now, they dare not touch him; he is the Blackfish's quarry, and must come unbloodied to the hunt. _Or else they cannot tell themselves that justice has been done._

Ser Jaime stops ten paces from Lady Brienne, causing one of his guards to back into Jeren.

"Watch yourself, Patrek," Jeren growls.

With a muttered oath, Patrek moves aside, as do his fellows, leaving the space clear between Ser Jaime and M'lady, who stands still as stone, save for the chattering of her teeth.

"What are you doing, Kingslayer?" There's an edge of wary exasperation in Patrek's voice.

"Following the Blackfish's orders," Ser Jaime says, deceptively meek. "You heard the boy. Lady Brienne will perish of the cold without better covering, and I'm not likely to need this cloak again." He fumbles with the golden lion's head on his right shoulder.

Patrek's sword-arm rises, until the point of his blade is level with Jaime Lannister's heart. "Kingslayer, stop! You may go no further!"

"I'm harmless enough." One elegantly marked eyebrow arches in feigned astonishment. "Can it be that you brave Tully outlaws - your pardon, brave Tully _soldiers_ \- are afraid of an unarmed cripple?"

 _In a coat of gold, or a coat of red..._ Crippled and unarmed he may be, but this lion still has claws. _Why does he provoke these men, though?_ Pod wonders. _What does he hope to accomplish?_  
  
Patrek's sword wavers. "I'm not afraid! It's just ... Ryger's orders."

"Let him give her the cloak," rumbles the grizzled old kennelmaster Luke, who stands at Lady Brienne's elbow. "He's right. The lass is like to freeze to death elsewise, and I want no part of that."

"Seven Hells!" Ser Jaime exclaims. "These damned lions have teeth!" He holds his hand up so they can all see spots of blood welling up on the pad of his thumb from where he's pricked it on the clasps. "I need your help, Podrick."

Pod is already moving, vividly aware of moonlight gleaming on the edges of Tully swords, and of his own heart thudding in his chest.

"Careful, Pod!" Ser Jaime says, his eyes narrowed, as Pod reaches up for the first of the lions. "These clasps are as sharp as unexpected thorns."

 _Thorns?_ Pod twists one of the lion's heads between his fingers, turning it this way and that, to give himself time to think. What can the man mean? There is nothing particularly sharp about the heavy gold, and indeed, Pod cannot imagine how Ser Jaime managed to cut himself on the pin in the first place.

A flare of torchlight when one of the Tully men shifts impatiently gives Pod the answer. _Where did you come by that little thorn?_ Ser Jaime had asked him as they waited by their little fire for the Tullys, and wolves howled in the distance. _Strap it to your forearm_ , that silken voice had advised. Pod lets his left sleeve slip slightly to reveal the haft of his dagger to Ser Jaime, and works the clasps of the other man's cloak swiftly free.

"Good lad," Ser Jaime murmurs, as the heavy cloth slides from his shoulders. He catches the folds in the crook of his right arm, and takes the final steps that bring him face to face with M'lady, who wears the same puzzled expression as her Tully guards.

Only the soughing of a distant wind in the white tree's leaves mars the silence that has descended up them all. Wordlessly, Ser Jaime tugs the cloak from his arm, and drapes it around M'lady, holding it in place with his golden hand when it threatens to misbehave. His movements are awkward, but he shakes his head at Pod's mute offer of help, and fastens the clasps himself.

When he is done, he steps back to survey his handiwork. "In truth, Lady Brienne, red doesn't become you nearly so well as blue." His voice deepens. "When you go north again, throw away this old rag, and get yourself some furs to keep warm."

"Jaime," M'lady breathes, and in that word, her heart is laid bare before them all.

Ser Jaime swallows hard, and the torchlight catches the suspicious brightness of his eyes. His lips part, but before he can speak, Garth pushes forward, to stand between M'lady and Ser Jaime. "Me and the lads'll keep her warm for you, Kingslayer, when you're burning in Seven Hells."

 _All that he cannot have offends him_ , Pod thinks, moving to M'lady's side. _And what offends him, he will destroy_. But not without a fight.

"Garth!" Hoster exclaims. "No!"

"She's not much to look at," Jeren says dubiously. "And she's got no tits."

Garth leers. "Her cunt must be as sweet as honey, though, if the Kingslayer's willing to die for it."

Ser Jaime's nostrils flare, belying the mildness of his tone. "Garth, is it? I'm afraid I didn't hear you."

The very air between the two men seems to crackle with anger and all eyes are bent on them, leaving M'lady unguarded at the edge of the circle that now forms around Garth and Ser Jaime.

"Oh," Pod says softly. Ser Jaime has neatly diverted the Tullys attention from M'lady, leaving Pod to free her from her bonds.

"I said, once you're dead, Kingslayer, I mean to find out how tight your whore's cunt is," Garth says, savoring each hideous word.

Pod feels M'lady stiffen beside him; her teeth are clenched so tight Pod fears her jawbone will break through her skin. He slides the dagger out of its sheath, and with clumsy fingers, reaches beneath the bunched folds of Ser Jaime's cloak for the rope that binds her arms.

"Her name is Brienne. _Lady_ Brienne to scum like you." With no other warning, Ser Jaime's golden fist rises in a lazy arc that ends in the crunch of bone. Garth howls in pain and claps both hands over his mouth and nose, while blood oozes from his trembling fingers.

For the space of a heartbeat, the Tully men stand frozen; then they close around Ser Jaime, driving him to his knees with their blows. Garth's cries, and the commotion draw their fellows towards the tree, until Pod loses sight of Ser Jaime's golden head, though he can still hear the dull thud of boots and fists meeting flesh and bone.

"They'll kill him." M'lady says, and draws a long, ragged breath.

"Yes." Pod remembers the riots in King's Landing, when the mob had torn armored knights limb from limb. Ser Jaime knew this would happen when he struck Garth, Pod realizes. _He is buying me time to free M'lady. I must not fail him._ Pod shudders as he begins to saw at the thick cords that bind Lady Brienne's arms.

"Mother, have mercy! Maiden, have mercy!" M'lady mutters, and as if in answer to her prayers, a grim gray-armored figure comes striding across the field of snow.

"Enough!" The Blackfish's voice cuts through the tumult like a hot knife through butter; Alyn Ryger pulls men from their fellows by elbows, arms, and earlobes, disregarding their protests, while three brawny crossbowmen in Tully livery stand with their weapons loaded and aimed into the thick of the fray. Within the space Ryger and his men have cleared for Ser Brynden, Pod catches a glimpse of Ser Jaime, lying motionless on the slushy ground, his knees drawn up to his chest; that glimpse makes him work twice as hard.

"What are you doing?" M'lady whispers, twisting away from Pod's knife.

"Trying to free you," Pod whispers back. "If you'll just hold still, M'lady."

"Is Jaime dead?" she asks, and there is such anguish in her soft voice that Pod's own throat closes in sympathy. "I cannot see."

A wet cough confirms that Ser Jaime still lives. He raises himself to one elbow, and Pod catches a gleam of white teeth in the torch-cast shadows. "All hail, my unexpected savior," he rasps. "Pardon me, Ser Brynden ..." He coughs again. "I would bow, but cannot rise just yet."

Beside Pod, Lady Brienne lets out the breath she has been holding.

Ser Brynden ignores his prisoner and looks around at his men; his mouth is set hard as granite. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands.

Garth takes his hands from his face, revealing his pulped nose and the bloody ruin of his upper lip. He spits a tooth at the Blackfish's foot. "The Kingslayer," he says, hissing through the hole in his mouth. "He hit me."

"I can see that," Ser Brynden says. "Why?"

"M'lord?" Garth asks, puzzled.

"Why did he hit you?"

"He's the Kingslayer." Jeren shrugs, as though that is explanation enough.

M'lady shifts uneasily, but remains silent, to Pod's relief. Her words will not help Ser Jaime amongst these men, and if she draws attention to herself and Pod, she will only waste the chance Ser Jaime bought at such a grievous cost.

"My lord," Hoster says says softly. "That is not the truth ... Garth ... they... spoke ill of Lady Brienne ---"

"What the lad means to say is Garth and Jeren threatened to rape her," Luke adds. "That's when the Kingslayer hit Garth."

Though neither Hoster nor Luke can see him, Pod flashes them both a grateful smile. Ser Brynden is far more likely to believe his own men than either M'lady or Pod.

The Blackfish's eyes narrow as he takes in all of them: M'lady; Ser Jaime, who has now struggled to his knees; and the Tully men. Few of them can meet his gaze, but Garth is still defiant, and Jeren looks confused.

"I'll have no rapers amongst my men, whatever service you've done me in the past. Take Garth and Jeren back to the mill, and keep them under guard, while I decide what to do with them," he tells Alyn Ryger, who beckons to the crossbowmen.

Five men gone, Pod thinks. _Ninety-five left._ He saws harder at the rough rope around Lady Brienne's wrists.

"As for the rest of you," Ser Brynden continues, "you stood by while your fellows insulted Lord Selwyn Tarth's daughter, and then took it upon yourself to forestall the will of the Gods. Did you forget Ser Jaime was mine to fight in single combat?"

The Tully men glance at each other, and then Patrek, who had guarded Ser Jaime, steps forward and kneels. "We did forget, my lord, and for that, we are heartily sorry and will take whatever punishment you deal out to us. But the men ... well, what was said at the Kingslayer's trial ... and ... he hit Garth and ... Garth is one of us. And _he,"_ he gestures with his chin at Ser Jaime "well, he's a Lannister, isn't he? And they killed our King."

Ser Brynden nods. _He cannot push them too far,_ Pod thinks, _or he will lose them altogether_. That is a danger beyond imagining.

The Blackish knows it too; there is no more talk of punishing his men. Instead, he turns and looks down at Ser Jaime.

"Can you still fight?" he asks.

"As well as ever," Jaime Lannister answers.

M'lady sucks her teeth at the bare-faced lie; from this distance, Pod cannot make out the full extent of Ser Jaime's injuries, but he's still on his knees, and his breathing is audible even from here, harsh and labored.

"Good," the Blackfish says, and throws down M'lady's swordbelt and Oathkeeper in front of Ser Jaime. "Get up and arm yourself."

"Now that," Ser Jaime says, "might present a problem!"

"Help him, Pod," Lady Brienne murmurs. "The ropes will wait."

The first of the bonds on M'lady's arms parts at last; then, under the cover of her cloak, Pod slides his dagger back into its sheath before he steps forward into the Blackfish's scrutiny.

"You ... Squire," Ser Brynden says, "whatever your name is... Help the Kingslayer!"

For the second time tonight, Pod must pass through the ranks of Tully men for Ser Jaime's sake; they are as hostile as before, though Luke does reach out to steady Pod when he stubs his toe on something heavy. The object proves to be Ser Jaime's golden hand, lying half-submerged in the mud churned up by the feet of half a hundred Tullys. Two of the fingers are crushed nearly flat, and the cuff is so badly banged and dented that it will never fit onto Ser Jaime's stump again.

The man is nearly as battered as his golden hand. The right sleeve of Ser Jaime's leather jerkin is in tatters that part to reveal the dirty bandages covering his wrist. A cut threads through his left eyebrow, oozing blood, and a bruise shows dark and shining on the cheekbone below. From the stiff way he moves, and the quickly-suppressed gasp of pain when Pod pulls him to his feet, Pod reckons his unseen injuries are worse than the visible ones.

"My thanks, Pod," Ser Jaime says when he has his breath back. "Now if you'll fasten that belt for me ..." The golden hilt of Oathkeeper shimmers in the torchlight as Pod lifts it from its resting place. The Tullys have withdrawn, outside of earshot, perhaps fearful of the Kingslayer's reputation, or the Valyrian blade, or both.

"My lord," Pod says quietly, "you are in no condition to fight. I fear you are sorely hurt."

"Hurt or no, Podrick," Ser Jaime says, "I must fight. Do you not understand?"

"Understand what, my lord?"

"Win or lose," Ser Jaime says, "I die tonight." He is as matter-of-fact as though he were discussing the weather.

"If the Seven decide in your favor ... ?" Pod argues. "Then ..."

"I still believe Tyrion innocent of Joffrey's death, Pod," Ser Jaime says. "And yet I watched the Mountain crush his champion's head. It is not the gods who decide these things, but men." He shrugs. "But for argument's sake, say the Seven do proclaim me guiltless, and I defeat the Blackfish. Do you think his men will let me go?"

Pod shakes his head.

Ser Jaime continues. "My fate is already written, so take heed for your lady. Brynden Tully will not harm Brenne, I think, after she has served her purpose as bait to make me fight. And perhaps a few of the others would honor his word. But I do not trust them all."

"Nor I," Pod volunteers.

"Clever lad," Ser Jaime says. "That is why you must free Brienne yourself and not rely on the Blackfish to do it for you," His voice drops until he is nearly whispering. "Now ... do you remember what I said to Bronn? About tomorrow morning?"

Pod frowns, trying to unstick the words caught inside his weary head. At Riverrun, yesterday afternoon, Ser Jaime had told Bronn to bring ... to bring men ... five hundred men to the fifteenth mile marker on the River Road by dawn tomorrow. _Today_. In just a few hours, in fact. Bronn's orders were to make an example of Edmure Tully if Ser Jaime and M'lady failed to emerge at the marker. _Five hundred_ , Pod thinks. They would be a match for all of the Blackfish's men.

"Yes, my lord," Pod says softly. "I remember."

"Bring her to the meeting place," Ser Jaime says. "Do you remember the path from here?"

"Yes." By dawn tomorrow, Pod will have ridden to and from the mill three times. "And then what, my lord?"

"How should I know? I'll be dead, remember?"

Pod flinches, startled by the sudden harshness of Ser Jaime's tone; the slight movement breaks the other man's mood. When Ser Jaime continues, his voice is gentle again. "That was unfair, Podrick. Take Brienne to meet Bronn at the milestone, so poor feckless Edmure Tully can keep his head. After that ... Brienne must do whatever she pleases. Ride north to Sansa Stark, or go home to her father in Tarth. Whatever pleases her. Tell her also --" He looks into the distance, as though there is so much he would say to M'lady that he cannot choose the most important thing. At last, he says, "Tell her that there is no debt between us." 

"And if vengeance is what pleases her?" Pod cannot help but ask. M'lady hunted down Stannis Baratheon for Renly's sake, whom she loved for no more than a passing kindness; what might she do to avenge the death of this man, who has chosen to die for her?

Ser Jaime glances over at M'lady by the tree; the lines around his mouth deepen, and he looks old, and weary, and desperately sad. "If that is the case, Pod," he says softly, "then remind her, for my sake, that vengeance is what brought us all here." A movement amongst the Tully men catches his eye, and in the same low voice, he tells Pod, "Arm me, before they grow more suspicious."

Pod kneels, and with his thoughts all bent on what will happen at dawn, he places Oathkeeper's scabbard on Ser Jaime's left side, where any right-handed man would reach to draw his blade.

"Podrick!"

"Oh," Pod says, flushing. "Your pardon, my lord. I didn't think... Your pardon." 

"No matter," Ser Jaime says. His tense shoulders relax slowly, as Pod switches the sword to its proper place. "Podrick, I've been thinking."

"Yes, my lord?"

"It's best you and Brienne stay here at the mill under the Blackfish's eye until it's nearly dawn, so you can be certain that Bronn will be at the mile marker when you get there.

"Very well, my lord," Pod replies, rising to his feet. It makes perfect sense - the less time any of the Tully men who think like Garth or Jeren have to find M'lady alone, the better.

"Even Brienne cannot fight a dozen men alone, though I'll wager she would, if she thought it needful, or if honor demanded that she try." 

"You know her well, my lord," Pod says, unable to suppress a quick grin. 

One corner of Ser Jaime's mouth quirks briefly, and then he is deadly serious again. "I will keep the Blackfish busy, for as long as you require to free her. You have my word."

Crippled and injured though he is, Pod believes him.

"One last thing, Pod," Ser Jaime says.

"Yes, Ser Jaime?" 

"Try not to cut the last rope until after the Blackfish finishes me off."

"My lord?" Pod's voice rises in astonishment, and a few of the Tully men look over, suspicion writ large on their faces.

Ser Jaime's hand clamps down on Pod's shoulder. "Not so loud," he whispers. "Try not to free her while I'm still alive; wait until I'm dead, and they're doing whatever they intend with me. Elsewise, I fear Brienne will do something heroic and stupid."

"She wouldn't be the only one doing that tonight," Pod mutters.

Ser Jaime's fleeting smile is unexpectedly sweet.

"I'm no hero, Pod," he says. "Have you forgotten? I'm the Kingslayer."


	5. Lionheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Valyrian steel is matched against a man with a grudge, Pod and Brienne meet an old foe, and Jaime asks Brienne to pay a debt.

When Pod was a lad of eight, a troupe of traveling mummers set up shop under the walls of Ser Cedric Payne’s mouldering keep. For a few nights, Pod suffered alongside Florian and Jonquil, and stood-opened mouthed as Prince Aemon the Dragonknight went to war for Queen Naerys. The mummers moved on after three days, leaving Pod’s world a little bit grayer, and the purses of the townsmen a great deal lighter.

Ten years later, he encountered the same troupe again, foot-soldiers in the vast army of mummers, jugglers, tumblers, bards, cutpurses, and whores who had descended upon King’s Landing for Joffrey Baratheon’s wedding celebrations. With eighteen years and a battle under his belt, Pod was no wide-eyed child to be taken in by the tawdry tricks of their trade; he noticed the sun-browned skin of Florian’s head showing through his thinning hair, and the powder caked in the creases of Jonquil’s throat. And yet, the players retained some of the magic that had entranced him as a child, and he lingered to watch them long past the time he was meant to return to the Red Keep with Lord Tyrion's cask of Arbor Gold.

He remembers those mummers, as Ser Jaime and the Blackfish raise their swords with a grave courtesy that belies their intent to murder each other. Once, the fame of two such swordsmen would have set a dozen bards to singing of their great deeds, but now both men are long past their prime. Years lie as heavy across the Blackfish’s shoulders as his iron-grey armor; he wears no helm, and even by moonlight, the lines that score his forehead are plainly visible. Ser Jaime is far younger, of course, but his right arm ends in harrowed skin and mangled bone, instead of the sword-hand once famed across the Seven Kingdoms.

At first, both men are hesitant, testing one another as a sailor tests the wind, but soon each takes the measure of his opponent. Ser Brynden is as steady and unrelenting as a battering ram, while Ser Jaime has Valyrian steel in his hand and a lithe grace in his quick feet.

Ser Jaime slips inside Ser Brynden's guard to leave a gouge in the steel plate and chainmail that protect the Blackfish's left elbow. The Blackfish seems more startled than hurt by the thin dribble of blood down his forearm; he responds with a series of wild blows that Ser Jaime avoids with ease. The older man is left huffing in the center of the snowy square as his opponent dances out of range.

"That's right, Jaime," M'lady mutters. "Tire him out."

Lady Brienne's voice recalls Pod to himself. _I will keep the Blackfish busy, for as long as you need to free her._ Jaime Lannister is doing his part; it's high time Pod undertook his. He saws at the second coil of rope that binds M’lady’s arms, his task made harder by the way her hands clench and unclench with each meeting of the two swords.

“If you please, M’lady,” Pod says in a low voice, “don’t move about so much!”

She glances at him, nods, and stills her ceaseless movements for a few seconds, but the next flurry of blows sees her fists balled, and her forearms tensed again. Pod sighs. He’ll just have to go slower, so he doesn’t slip and cut Lady Brienne by mistake.

Steel strikes steel, now with the sharp ring of a well-struck bell, now with a screech as the two blades scrape down each other’s length. Oathkeeper is a tongue of red flame in Ser Jaime’s left hand as he moves to the attack, forcing Ser Brynden back towards the doors of the mill, farther from Lady Brienne, and from Pod’s effort to free her.

Then it is the Blackfish’s turn; with slow, deliberate arcs like the rhythm of a blacksmith's hammer, he beats Ser Jaime back, and back, and back, across the packed snow to the opposite side of the square. The ranks of cheering Tully men part as the swordsmen come closer, until Ser Jaime has his back to the white tree; above his head, the wind sighs and rustles the dark, brittle leaves. _Too soon_ , Pod thinks, despairing. He's only just parted the second rope, and already the fight is nearly done.

Ser Brynden swings his greatsword, a huge blow that will cut his enemy in two when it connects, but Ser Jaime is already moving sideways under the stroke, his shoulder poised to smash into the older man's chin. _Your body is a weapon if you use it right, boy_ , Bronn told Pod once. It looks like the old rogue has taught Ser Jaime a few tricks as well. _Go for the weak points, the soft parts._

"Eyes and balls," Pod says out loud, remembering the lesson.

"Pardon?"

Pod doesn't need to see Lady Brienne's face to know the look on her face. "Nothing, m'lady," he replies and busies himself once more with her bonds.

Ser Brynden rocks back under Ser Jaime's weight, and the point of his blade snags in a pale branch. Quick as thought, Oathkeeper slices through the trapped sword, leaving two-thirds of it vibrating in the thick white limb of the tree. Off-balance, the Blackfish falls, and lands splayed on his back, his sword-hilt still clasped in his hand. Ser Jaime brings Oathkeeper's point to rest in the soft flesh just beneath his opponent's chin, and glances towards Pod, his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

“Finish him, Jaime,” M’lady says, too loud for Pod’s comfort, for the Tully guards have fallen into menacing silence. Hands grip sword-hilts, and stone-hard faces promise that neither Valyrian steel nor the judgement of the gods will keep Ser Jaime safe for long after he spills the Blackfish's blood.

 _Win or lose, he dies tonight._ Pod gives a slight shake of his head. Ser Jaime must fight on, for M'lady is not yet free.

“Get up,” Ser Jaime says to the Blackfish, lifting his sword away from the old man’s neck. “And get yourself another sword.” A ripple of confusion spreads from the men closest to the fight through the ranks of their comrades, all straining to see how Ser Brynden has escaped certain death. Even now, Jaime Lannister confounds them; no man there would look for chivalry from the Kingslayer.

“What is he doing?” Lady Brienne asks Pod under the cover of the raised voices around her.

“I don’t know, M’lady,” Pod says, without pausing his ceaseless battle with the ropes. _I beg your pardon, Lady Brienne, for the lie,_ he tells her in his head, _and I hope you will forgive me someday._

The Blackfish scrambles to his feet with the help of Alyn Ryger, who shouts for someone to fetch his master’s other sword from the mill. The two men turn away from Ser Jaime who leans back against the tree, closes his eyes and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. He rode through the night, Pod remembers. And there was the beating he provoked. The torches gutter and flare, showing the bloody scrape on Ser Jaime's forehead, and bruises purpling along his jaw.

“Jaime,” M’lady murmurs, as soft and sorrowful as the rustling leaves above them.

He cannot have heard, but he opens his eyes, and turns his head towards her; a smile flickers across his lips, and he pushes himself upright from the tree's embrace, raising Oathkeeper's hilt to his heart, as Florian might salute Jonquil.

A Tully man returns with a second weapon, a two-handed greatsword with a freshly whetted edge that gleams in the moonlight when the Blackfish draws it from its scabbard.

“Are you rested, old man?” Ser Jaime says, pitching his voice deliberately loud. “Shall we resume this farce?” He throws himself forward, catching Ser Brynden off-guard, and pushing him away from Lady Brienne and Pod.

For a few hopeful moments, the Blackfish seems nearly overwhelmed by this furious assault, but Ser Jaime's attack stalls in center of the square. His feet are slower, his back less supple, and his shoulders drop as he blocks Ser Brynden's strokes. At last, the moment comes when Ser Jaime does not dodge the Blackfish's heavy blade in time; the Tully men raise a cheer, but the older man is weary as well and his sword's point only severs the laces of Ser Jaime's sleeve, instead of the edge taking Ser Jaime's arm.

“Pod, hurry!” Lady Brienne says in an undertone. "Jaime is tiring."

“Yes, M'lady” Pod replies, forbearing to say that he's working as fast as he can. The knife slips in his cramped, half-frozen hand, and its point gores the base of Pod’s thumb. “Seven Hells!” Pod swears.

"What is it, boy?" Luke asks, momentarily diverted from the fight.

"Nothing," Pod replies hastily, slipping the knife into its sheath and stepping out from his position behind Lady Brienne. "My foot -- my foot went numb!"

"Aye," Luke says. "It's a cold night, to be sure. Best move around if you want to keep all your toes."

Pod takes this sound advice, and stands beside Lady Brienne, making a great show of stamping his feet and blowing on his hands to stay warm, until Luke is fully absorbed in the fight again.

"You can stop making noise, Pod," M'lady says at last. "He's not paying attention. Are you all right?"

"Yes, M'lady!" he replies, though blood still sluggishly oozes from the puncture on his palm.

Her eyes narrow, but she does not press him. “I need a sword, Pod,” she says. "The old guard - Luke - has one. Once you free me, keep him talking so I can take it." She glances at Hoster, who has moved farther away from them, absorbed by the swordplay. "I don't think the young one will be any trouble."

“Yes, M’lady,” Pod says dutifully, though he will not let her kill herself in a fruitless attempt to save a doomed man. _Ser Jaime doesn't want that anyway_. He resumes his struggle with the hempen rope, which chafes the sore spot on his hand.

The flow of the fight shifts again; Ser Brynden now has the upper hand, and harries Ser Jaime back towards to the white tree. The Tully men begin to chant "Blackfish! Blackfish! Blackfish!" to the rhythm of his blade striking Oathkeeper. Ser Jaime is slower to parry now, as though his arm wears shackles that grow heavier with each stroke of his opponent's blade.

They are only a few long strides from M'lady and Pod when Ser Jaime slips on a tussock of grass made slick by partially melted snow; he stays on his feet, but the misstep jars Oathkeeper from his weakening grip. As he bends to retrieve it, Ser Brynden’s sword cleaves the icy air; Ser Jaime pivots, but not swiftly enough.

Four inches of steel catch him a glancing blow on his unprotected left side. Such a strike would scarcely slow a man wearing plate, and leave little more than bruises under mail, but Ser Jaime is clad only in leather and linen, which part beneath the blade. He falls to his knees, his hand clapped to the wound.

Lady Brienne moans, as though it is her side pierced by Blackfish's steel, as though it is her blood welling up beneath Ser Jaime's fingers; Pod saws blindly at the last few stubborn fibers of rope, ignoring the pain in his hand and the tightness in his throat.

"The gods have guided Ser Brynden’s hand,” Alyn Ryger proclaims. “They have given us justice.”

“Justice! Justice! Justice!” The Tully men take up the chant, stamping their feet.

A grim smile plays across the Blackfish's thin lips as he braces himself for the killing blow, the end of what he has planned so cruelly and so well. He has set his murdered kinsfolk and captured keep in the balance against the Kingslayer's life and M'lady's heart, and he has won.

Ser Jaime lifts his chin to meet his fate head-on; moonlight silvers his hair, and bleaches his face to the dull white of bone. Shadows hollow his eyes and the bones of his cheek and jaw. He seems as one already turned to stone, save only for the white puff of his ragged breaths.

The final strands of M'lady's bonds part, too late, beneath Pod's dagger; with a wordless cry, she launches herself at Ser Jaime, as straight and true as an arrow. She sends them both toppling to the ground just as the blade scythes over their heads.

The Tully men buzz with anger, and break their ranks to close in on the three figures near the tree. Unnoticed, Pod wriggles forward amongst the press, his eye on Oathkeeper, which lies where it fell from Ser Jaime's hand, its ruby eye winking temptingly.

"Hold!" a voice cries out from the darkness near the mill's doors. "Put up your swords!"

***

The Blackfish whirls around to face this new threat, his blade still bare and bloody in his hand. The men around Pod drop their torches hissing into the snow, and he hears the scrape of half a hundred swords drawn from scabbards, and the whisper of arrows nocked in bows. A cloud drifts across the sky, darkening the clearing and cloaking Tully men and newcomers alike in shadow and mist. Have Bronn and his five hundred men come to the rescue?

Pod's heart leaps at the thought, but there is no clash of steel, and no lion banners snap in the sudden gust of wind that unveils the moon. The Blackfish's men slip their blades back into scabbards; Luke and Jeren greet a man they call Anguy as though they are old friends.

The newcomers wear drab cloaks over their faded surcoats and rough-sewn jerkins and they carry no flags or devices; three riders follow the men on foot. The first is tall and haggard, his right eye covered by a black patch; the second, wild-haired and scraggle-bearded, wears ragged red robes over his chainmail. The third rides a nasty brute of a black stallion that snaps its large teeth at all those who press too close, horses and men alike. When its rider slips off his hood, Pod knows his terrible scars at once: Sandor Clegane has risen from the dead.

The three dismount, and make their way towards Ser Brynden. Though the Tully rank-and-file seem well-disposed towards their unexpected guests, the Blackfish's rigid back and squared shoulders reveal his anger even before he speaks.

"Beric, this is Tully business," he says. "I will brook no interference."

Beric Dondarrion. _The Lightning Lord_ , they called him in the inns of the Riverlands where M'lady and Pod stayed on their first journey north. They spoke of him with awe, their whispers of his deeds muted by the sight of Lady Brienne's lion-hilted sword. This man and his Brotherhood are no friends to Lannisters, and the only Lannister here lies crumpled in the broken snow, with Lady Brienne kneeling beside him, heedless of all else. M'lady can look for no aid from this quarter, though at least their arrival has removed the sword from Ser Jaime's neck for the moment. _How long before the Blackfish tries again?_

"And what business, Ser Brynden, causes you to forget to post watchmen and sentries? If we had been Lannister soldiers, you would all be prisoners or dead by now," Lord Beric says.

If there is fighting, Lady Brienne will need a weapon; her guards have abandoned their posts, and all their attention is on the two lords, so Pod edges ever closer to Oathkeeper, until his shadow hides the gleam of its golden hilt.

"My business is justice," Ser Brynden says. "Justice for the Starks and for the Tullys. I mean to send Jaime Lannister's head to his sister in King's Landing."

"Lannister, Stark, Tully," says the man in the wine-dark robes. "None of that matters. There is only one war; there is only one enemy. The night is dark and full of terrors."

All of the Brotherhood, and even some of the Tully men respond: "Lord, cast your light upon us."

Pod has heard those words before, spoken by the beautiful, terrifying red woman at Castle Black, who carried the scent of balefires about her. When Pod asked who she was, the Wildlings and the men of the Night's Watch swore that she burned living men to appease her god, but he was never sure how much they told him was truth, and how much mockery of their half-frozen and uninvited Southern guest. This priest, if that is what he is, seems far less fearsome than the Lady Melisandre.

"My lord has defeated the Kingslayer in single combat." Alyn Ryger's voice rises. "The gods have given us justice."

"They are not our gods," Lord Beric says. "And that is not our justice. We have another purpose here. Thoros, tell them what you saw."

The priest closes his eyes, and speaks slowly, as a man recounting a half-remembered dream. "I saw a lion fall. I saw a star burning under a white tree. I saw the armies of Death marching South."

The red-bearded Wildling at the Wall had spoken of facing an army of dead men alongside Jon Snow, but then he'd also boasted of fucking a bear. Then, Pod had believed neither tale, but Thoros's soft words, spoken in utter earnest, raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Tell me, did you see all this at the bottom of a wineskin? The only bit of that which makes any sense is the part about the lion." Ser Brynden's laugh is utterly without mirth. "Jaime Lannister fell to my sword. Justice has been done."

 _This was not justice,_ Pod wants to shout. _The lion put his own head on the block, and he was innocent of the crimes you laid against him._

"Do not mock Thoros," Lord Beric says. His beautiful voice has gained a sharper edge. "Did he not tell you Riverrun would fall? Did his warning not give you time to hide men and horses and food and fodder for both?"

"Aye, that he did," says Ryger. He glances at Ser Brynden. "My lords, we are all friends here. Perhaps you should speak in private. The Kingslayer is as good as dead."

The Blackfish glances back over his shoulder, and nods. He and Ryger follow Thoros and Lord Beric towards the open doors of the mill; the Brotherhood and the Tully men, including Luke and Jeren, trail after them.

Pod snatches up Oathkeeper, and with one eye on the Tully men, approaches Lady Brienne, who still kneels beside Ser Jaime. "M'lady," he says, close to her ear, "this is our chance. We must flee now; they will not notice we are gone." He holds out the sword. "Take Oathkeeper, and guard yourself, while I try to steal a horse. I know the way, and we'll be safe once we reach the road. Ser Jaime has commanded men to meet us at the mile marker at dawn."

"No," she says, without turning her head from the still figure on the ground before her. "I can't leave Jaime, and he is too sorely wounded to ride."

"Lady Brienne ...I think ... " Astonished at his own presumption, Pod places a hand, feather-soft, on her shoulder. "I think ... I think he is already dead."

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "He's not. I would know."

With infinite gentleness, she slips an arm under his shoulders and turns him from his side onto his back. Pod can see the faint, uneven rise of his chest and the pale mist of his breaths in the chill air, the only signs that Ser Jaime still lives. _For how much longer?_

As if in answer, Ser Jaime's eyes flutter open, and he reaches for M'lady's forearm, though the movement makes him gasp. "Brienne, help me," he says through clenched teeth.

"Always."

"Pull... me...up."

"You must rest, Jaime. Your wound..." Her voice is thick with unshed tears.

His grip on her arm tightens. "You promised." He rises onto his elbow, but the effort is too great and he falls back again.

Pod lays Oathkeeper back onto the snow, and moves to Ser Jaime's other side; at a nod from M'lady, they both lift. Though he is lean, Jaime Lannister is a tall man, and though Lady Brienne is strong and Pod is willing, it requires a deal of pulling and heaving to get him to his feet, swaying like a sapling in a windstorm.

"My thanks ..." Ser Jaime says, when he can speak again.

"That was foolish, Jaime," M'lady says. "What now?"

"Didn't ... want to meet ... Stranger ... flat on my back," he gasps. "Why... make it easier for the ... bastard?"

M'lady makes a sound halfway between a sob and a whimper. "A Maester-," she says. "Pod said your men were their way."

Ser Jaime takes his arm from Pod's shoulder, and touches his fingers to the rent in his side, where dark blood still slowly pulses. "Brienne," he says, low and gentle. "No Maester can heal me now."

 _He's right._ After the Blackwater, Pod saw men live for days with belly wounds; some prayed and some cursed the gods, and some wept for their mothers, but in the end, neither prayers, nor curses, nor tears could save them.

There are scattered shouts of "Rh'llor!" and "Blackfish!" behind them. Pod shifts under the weight of Ser Jaime's arm, and sneaks a look back at the men crowded around the mill doors. There's no telling how long their attention will be diverted; Pod's heart beats faster at the thought of the Blackfish returning to find the three of them defenseless on all sides. _One swing of his greatsword, and he could have all three of our heads._

"Ser Jaime, M'lady, I beg your pardon," he says. "But perhaps Ser Jaime could rest more easily against that big tree?" At least they will not be surprised from when their backs are turned.

"A good idea, Pod," M'lady says. "Can you walk, Jaime?"

"Yes," he says, through gritted teeth.

The tree is close, but each step seems to last for an age; by the time they stumble onto white tree's many-fingered roots, Pod's shirt is soaked with the rank sweat of fear. 

Ser Jaime sinks to the ground, like puppet whose strings have been cut without warning, though he clings still to M'lady's hand. "So cold," he says, through chattering teeth.

Without a word, M'lady settles beside him, and draws him to her, covering them both with her cloak. Ser Jaime's taut shoulders slacken in her embrace, and he closes his eyes. _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_ Pod prays as he trudges back to retrieve Oathkeeper, _let this be his end. For his sake and for Lady Brienne's._

***

  
Pod chooses a spot to stand watch not far from where Ser Jaime fell, from where he can watch the mill, and hear the low murmur of Lady Brienne's voice, though he cannot hear her words. Oathkeeper in his hand is as light as silk, and as sharp as regret; it is a sword for the heroes out of song, who could fight an army single-handed, not for the likes of Pod. I _'m only borrowing you for a time, to defend M'lady while she cannot defend herself,_ he tells it. _She will wield you again soon enough._

He's wondering how he will steal those horses he promised M'lady, when a shadow falls across the white snow and the red splashes that mark Ser Jaime's passage. For such a large man, Sandor Clegane moves with the stealth and quiet of a hunting dog. The Hound's burning eyes in his ruined face are enough to set Pod's knees to knocking together, but his arm is steady as he brings Oathkeeper level with the base of the other man's throat.

"Stand back," Pod says, trying his best to sound fierce and determined, and failing miserably. _If he chooses, he can pluck this sword from my hand and ram it down my gullet. But I'll give him as much of a fight as I can._

"Easy, lad! I'm unarmed." Clegane shows his empty hands. "I mean you no harm."

Pod does not lower Oathkeeper. "Then you've changed."

"Aye," Clegane says. "So have you, lad. I don't remember you so ferocious when you ran errands for the Imp."

"Lord Tyrion," Pod says, "is not an Imp."

"You're loyal, boy, I'll give you that. They should name  _you_  Hound." Clegane looks over Pod's shoulder at Lady Brienne in her crimson cloak, and Ser Jaime nestled in her arms. "Looks like she's changed too. Not nearly so bloodthirsty as she was with me." He chuckles, a horrible sound, like metal scraping stone. "Is it true love? Will they sing songs about the Kingslayer and his wench?"

Of all the strange things that have happened to Pod tonight, it's possible the strangest is the Hound asking Pod to unravel the tangled threads that connect Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne. Clegane would do as well to question the moon about why it shines down on this bitter world, and he'll get no more of an answer from Pod than he would from the moon.

"What do you want?" Pod asks, using M'lady's iciest tones.

"Tully's men said Brienne of fucking Tarth was the Kingslayer's whore," the Hound says, with a nod back towards the mill. "They said he came to die for her. I couldn't believe my ears."

"What do you want?" Pod asks again, trembling now not with fear, but with anger.

"I wanted to see if it was true," the Hound says. His lips twist. "Considering you left me for dead last time we met, I get to ask the questions now. Did you find Arya Stark?"

"No," Pod admits. He drops his eyes, and shifts from leg to leg. If he hadn't let the horses get away... If they hadn't assumed the worst of Sandor Clegane... But what should they have thought? At that inn near Winterfell, after Sansa Stark too rejected her aid, M'lady had numbered her failures. _Renly Baratheon. Catelyn Stark. Arya Stark. Sansa Stark_. She'd saved Sansa in the end though. "We found Arya Stark's sister. Lady Sansa. We rescued her from Ramsay Bolton, and brought her safe to her brother at Castle Black."

"The little bird? You found her?" A wild joy lights Clegane's burned face.

Pod smiles back, for something has just occurred to him. It's apparent that the Hound cares deeply for Sansa Stark; M'lady is in the Riverlands, facing death at the hands of Sansa's uncle, only because Sansa Stark sent her here. If M'lady is to escape the Tullys, she will need allies, and Clegane would make a formidable ally.

"Yes," Pod says, very slowly. "M'lady saved Sansa Stark. She kept her oaths to Catelyn Stark, and to Jaime Lannister. More than that - Lady Brienne is sworn to Lady Sansa's service. So ..." He pauses, considering what to say next to convince the Hound, whose features have settled back into their habitual snarl. "If you were to aid M'lady, it would be as though you were helping Sansa Stark."

Clegane looks Pod up and down, his eyes narrowed, and nods, as if he's made up his mind about something. "For what you did," he says, "for what Brienne of Tarth did, I'll tell you this in return. The Tully men are in ugly mood, and I don't know how long Beric and Thoros can hold them back. Tell your lady to run while she still can."

"I tried," Pod says. "But she wouldn't listen. She won't leave Ser Jaime."

"Is that the way of it?" Clegane snorts. "Love's a funny thing. Do you think she'll listen to me?"

"Perhaps," Pod says. "It's worth a try."

***

Clegane stands watching Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime for a moment, with Pod at his elbow, before he lifts his foot and breaks a twig. M'lady's head snaps up at the sound; she frowns, and rubs her eyes, as though she cannot quite believe what she is seeing.

Before she can speak, Clegane asks: "Is the Kingslayer dead?"

Ser Jaime's eyes open at that. "Not quite," he says, with a grimace.

"Best be quick about it," Clegane says. "Beric and the Blackfish are arguing about your pretty head, and Beric is losing."

"Stubborn man, the Blackfish," Ser Jaime murmurs.

Lady Brienne finds her voice at last. "Why are you telling us this?" The line between her brows has deepened, until it seems etched into her very skull.

"One good turn ...The boy here told me what you did for Sansa Stark," Clegane says, simply. "He told me Jaime Lannister sent you to help her. And now I'm helping you. Things are ugly back there." He points at the mill. "If the Blackfish doesn't take the Kingslayer's head with his sword, it looks like his men will take it with their hands. And they may not stop at just the one."

Under the grime and the blood, Ser Jaime's face turns as white as new-fallen snow.

"Why should we believe you? Lady Sansa's own kin used me as bait for Jaime," M'lady says bitterly.

The Hound shrugs. "Believe what you like. If you're too pigheaded to take my advice, I thought you might at least want to save the boy."

And with that, the Hound turns on his heel and strides back to the mill.

***

"He's right," Ser Jaime says. "Take Pod and go before the Tullys return."

She shakes her head. "Not without you."

"You cannot save me, Brienne," he says. "Save yourself. Save Pod."

"I will not leave you," she replies. "You came back for me... at Harrenhal, and here."

The doors of the mill open, and light spills out on the ranks of men massed outside. A voice shouts for silence. Pod shivers. It will not be long now.

"Pod," M'lady says.

"Yes, M'lady?"

Tears gleam in her eyes, but her voice is steady. "Pod, you must go. Go and meet Jaime's men, and then find Sansa Stark, and tell her … tell her that we failed. And then … will you take ship for Tarth? Let my father know --" She swallows. "Let my father know what happened here. He will reward you for all you have done, and if it pleases you to enter his service, he will take you."

"Lady Brienne," Pod asks, "have I displeased you in some way?"

"Of course not," M'lady replies. "Why would you think ...?"

"Only this is the third time you've tried to send me away. So I must have done something wrong. I know I'm not a proper squire, but tell me what I've done, and I won't do it again."

"Oh, Pod!" The corners of her mouth lift in the tiniest hint of a smile. "You've done nothing wrong. You know that."

"Good," Pod replies. "I'm glad you think so. Because I'm not leaving you here."

"Did you not promise to obey me, Pod?" She tries on the look of stern command that used to make Pod tremble.

"And you promised not to ask me to do anything against my honor," he replies, unafraid. "And what else would you call it, leaving you and Ser Jaime here, defenseless?"

A chuckle breaks the silence between them. "He's the perfect squire for you, Brienne," Ser Jaime says. "Every bit as stubborn as you are."

A wave of movement catches Pod's eyes; the Tully men seem like one great beast, stretching its limbs as it wakes. The beast roars, one creature with a hundred voices, and its cry goes up into the still air. "Kill him!" Pod hears. "Kill the Kingslayer!"

Ser Jaime's breath hitches. "Brienne, I do not fear my death," he says quietly. "But I fear ..." The words are wrung from him as hard as gold from a miser's palm. "I fear the manner of it. Please ..."

"No," she cries. "Do not ask this of me! You cannot be so cruel."

Pod frowns, trying to work out what Ser Jaime wants from M'lady.

"Have pity, Jaime!"

"It is pity I ask of _you_ , Brienne, and mercy." He is breathing fast and hard, great gulps of air, like a man who is drowning. "Who else but you would grant them to me?"

Pod meets Ser Jaime's eyes, and finds the answer there. _The cruelest thing he could ask of her, and the kindest_. He nods, acknowledging what he cannot say out loud. When Jaime Lannister is dead, M'lady will at last consent to leave him and save herself.

"A clean death, Brienne." His voice is deep and soft and relentless. "Give me that!"

The mass of men at the mill begins to move towards them.

M'lady nods. "Pod," she says, "give me Oathkeeper."

***

"I want to die on my feet," Ser Jaime says.

M'lady silently helps him stand, and then turns away, while Pod helps Ser Jaime undo the clasps of his leather jerkin; the laces of his shirt are knotted too tightly for Pod to untie.

"Tear it," Ser Jaime commands him.

The bottom of Ser Jaime's shirt is sodden from his wound, and Pod leaves bloody fingerprints on his chest on top of the bruises from his beating and the goosebumps raised on his skin in the chill air. "It doesn't matter," Ser Jaime says, when Pod tries to clean them.

He leans back against the tree, takes one deep breath, and says "I'm ready!"

The tears spill freely from M'lady's eyes now; she makes no move to brush them away or stop their flow down her cheeks. Pod swipes at his own eyes with his sleeve. _If she can bear this,_ he thinks, _then I can bear it too._

When M'lady is close enough, Ser Jaime reaches to brush a stray lock of her hair back into place, puts his hand on the back of her neck, and brings her to him until their foreheads touch. "Goodbye, Brienne," he says.

With one hand on Ser Jaime's shoulder, Lady Brienne slides Oathkeeper neatly between his ribs, straight into his heart. For an instant, they stand, transfixed against the tree; then she draws the sword out with a sob, and catches him as he falls.

Though he is past all pain, she is more tender than the mother of a newborn babe as she lays him down among the roots of the tree. She straightens his limbs, pulls the rags of his shirt closed, and fastens the clasps of his jerkin; she fills her hands with snow and washes the grime and the blood from his face. Last of all, she takes Oathkeeper from where she dropped it, wipes it clean on the cloak Ser Jaime draped around her, and lays it on his chest, curling his long fingers around the hilt. Death has smoothed the lines of suffering and mirth equally from his face; he looks like the Warrior, slumbering in a dream that will never end.

When she is finished, M'lady lifts her head to the pitiless moon and a howl of grief and rage bursts from her; the Tully men stop dead in their tracks, their cries for Jaime Lannister's blood silenced by the dying echoes of M'lady's despair. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, the soft thump of snow sliding off tree branches is the only sound in the clearing..

And murmurs of awe and wonder ripple through the crowd like a stone cast into a still pond. Pod turns his gaze from M'lady's stony face to what lies at her feet. On Jaime Lannister's breast, Oathkeeper has begun to glow with the dim light of a distant star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to all of you wonderful people who have read, and commented, on this fic. My sincere apologies for how long it has taken me to update; I can only say that this chapter was an extraordinarily difficult one to write, and the next one, the happy ending (because I promise there is one!) should go much faster. Especially thank you to K. for being the person who keeps me writing when I want to throw up my hands and quit, and to GumTree, for being such a great motivator :D
> 
> Second, I know it's been 10000 years, but just a reminder that this fic takes place directly after 6.08, when Brienne rows away from Riverrun, so no one knows where Arya is just now, and Jon and Sansa have not yet defeated the Boltons.


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